


Rend and Rebuild

by PeaceHeather



Series: Merlin fics [9]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arthur Finds Out About Merlin’s Magic (Merlin), BAMF Merlin, Druids, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Magic Revealed, Medieval Medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-05-19 04:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 103,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14866667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaceHeather/pseuds/PeaceHeather
Summary: One wrong move in the heat of battle changes everything. Merlin is a sorcerer, and Arthur has stabbed him.Cover by Linorien





	1. Chapter 1

There's a battle, because of course there is, this close to the border where the patrols are not always seen. Bandits, or maybe Bayard's men in disguise, it makes no matter. There is a battle, it was an ambush, and Arthur is in the thick of it, cut off from his men and trying to get closer to even one of them, to get back-to-back to someone so he can improve his odds of surviving.

Someone in Camelot red is down, unmoving, along with three or four of the bandits, their bodies littering the clearing and making it difficult to maneuver without tripping over someone. There are grunts and cries of pain, a scream of agony, the clash of weapons and bodies in armor.

One of the bandits stumbles and falls right onto Arthur's blade, and he is only barely able to tug free again before the next man is on him. Arthur has no shield with him, so he pulls his dagger to have something in his off hand, stabbing the man in the neck while he is occupied with fending off Arthur's sword.

He manages to clear a swath around him and take two steps toward Gwaine and Percival, when a heavy blow from behind drops him to his knees. It feels like someone has punched him in the kidneys, even through his armor, and it's suddenly hard to breathe. He whirls, sees a crossbow bolt headed right for him, miraculously bats it out of the sky before it can kill him. He hears a cry, rises and turns to his right, grimacing from the pain, cuts down another man, spins back toward Gwaine, and right in front of him he sees golden eyes, _sorcerer_ , and stabs just as the man lunges, hand outstretched.

An instant later, recognition: golden eyes, sorcerer, _Merlin,_ and Merlin is collapsing off his dagger and onto him before sliding to the ground, eyes wide, gold fading to blue… hand still outstretched.

The world stops.

Around him, the battle continues, but Arthur can't move, frozen in horror for the first time in over ten years; his mind hasn't gone blank like this since his first battle, since he was little more than a child. All he can do is stare at Merlin, bleeding on the ground, curling up, his breath coming in little pants and gasps.

Merlin.

He's stabbed _Merlin_.

Merlin is a sorcerer, and… and Arthur _stabbed_ him.

He…

"Merlin!" It's Lancelot, running over and sliding on his knees to a stop by the other man's side, his hands frantic as he tries to check for a pulse and turn Merlin over, both at the same time. Merlin gives a choked-off little cry that makes Arthur flinch. "All right, all right, Merlin. It's all right. Be still. Be still." Lancelot swiftly tugs off Merlin's neckerchief and balls it up, pressing it to the wound, and Merlin shudders all over, mouth gaping as though he can't get any air. "I know. I know. It'll be all right."

Then Percival is there, on Merlin's other side, holding him steady for Lancelot, whose hands have begun to shake. Elyan, Gwaine, and Leon step up to either side, all of them staring at the scene before them. In another minute, Lucan, Ector, and Bors join them.

"Sire?" Arthur's not sure which of them speaks.

He has to swallow twice before he can reply. "He's a sorce—" It starts to sound like a question, so he clears his throat and tries again. "He's a sorcerer."

"Sire…" it's Leon, this time, he's the only one of them to ever be so diffident toward Arthur. "Sire, are you sure?"

"He—his eyes glowed. His eyes were glowing, and I—" Stabbed him. But Arthur can't say that aloud.

Merlin bends his arm, the one that was outstretched, the one that was performing _magic,_ and grasps at Arthur's ankle. He makes a noise like a wounded animal, and Arthur can't bear it, can't bear whatever it is that Merlin wants from him right now.

He's a sorcerer, and Arthur has stabbed him.

He takes a step backward, and Merlin's hand falls away from his foot. He whimpers again, and Lancelot hushes him.

Arthur is still staring at Merlin, and doesn't even see the punch coming. It knocks him to the ground, but also knocks the shock right out of him, and he leaps to his feet to see Lucan and Ector holding Gwaine back, a look of rage on Gwaine's face like Arthur has never seen.

"You miserable bastard," the other man spits. "Is this how you repay Merlin's loyalty and devotion?"

"Shut up," says Ector, "and remember how to address your betters."

"No man is my _better_ who would betray a friend," says Gwaine.

"He attacked me." Arthur will never forget. "His eyes glowed gold, and then he lunged for me. I saw it."

"Look behind you, _Sire_ ," Gwaine sneers. Arthur does not want to turn his back on the man, but the others are looking past Arthur, and Elyan's eyebrows are raised in surprise, while Percival only looks stricken.

About ten paces away from him are two men with crossbows, lying in the bracken. Arthur approaches them cautiously, but soon sees that they are dead, their own bolts sticking out of their chests. That shouldn't be possible, unless they were shot by their own men, but there weren't any bowmen on the other side of the battle.

Or rather… it shouldn't be possible, unless magic turned their bolts back on them.

Arthur turns, and pain shoots through his kidney again, pain that he'd forgotten about in the heat of the battle. Reaching behind him, he feels a dent in his armor, as if someone had punched him hard enough to reach his kidney even through layers of metal and padding. Looking down, just where he'd been standing in front of Merlin, he sees another crossbow bolt, and with a wince, he sheathes his sword and bends down to pick it up.

"Sire?" asks Bors, and Arthur passes him the bolt. Its head is curled up, as if it had been shot into a stone. Bors turns the thing over, studying it as if it will give him answers Arthur does not have.

Another impossibility. Arrows may strike a man in the weak gaps or joints in armor, but will otherwise bounce off a sturdy breastplate; bolts, though, will go right through a man's leg and pin him to his horse, ignoring armor completely. If Arthur had really been shot in the kidney, this bolt should be sticking out of his stomach.

Sorcery.

Merlin is a sorcerer, and Arthur has stabbed him.

Merlin's sorcery may have saved Arthur's life.

And Arthur has stabbed him.

"Sire," says Lancelot, "the wound is serious. What are your orders?"

"We're too far from Camelot," says Leon. "He'd never—" He breaks off, glances uneasily at Arthur, but they both know what he was about to say. Merlin won't survive the journey back to Gaius.

"He is a sorcerer," says Ector; he is an older knight, one of Uther's. "Why would you want to _save_ him?"

Lucan does not answer, as Gwaine begins to struggle against their hold again, but Arthur is unsure what he would say. He's an older knight as well, one of the oldest. He's been serving Camelot since before Arthur was born—before the Purge began.

"There is another option," says Lancelot quietly. "It's rumored that there are druids somewhere nearby. If we could find them…"

"You speak treason," says Ector.

"Technically, Merlin's already committed it," Gwaine shoots back. "Even if it was to save Arthur's sorry hide."

"We can't seek them out!" says Leon. "His Majesty would never—"

"Uther isn't here."

"Now _you're_ the one speaking treason!" Leon gestures helplessly, as Ector shakes him. "Have a care, Sir Gwaine."

"He'll die without help," says Bors slowly. "It… may be better for him, if he dies here." The younger knights, Arthur's men, all turn to glare at him. Bors's expression hardens. "Better that he die here, than by the pyre or the headsman, don't you think?"

They fall silent, and look to Arthur; when he says nothing, Bors continues. "If you wish it, sire, I will deliver the mercy blow. He is suffering now."

"He deserves to suffer," says Ector. "He used magic in front of the prince. Has been close to His Highness for years. Who's to say what secrets he has learned?"

"If you know what's good for you," says Percival, rising from his crouch at Merlin's side, "you'll be quiet now."

Arthur can see the schism forming among his men, and knows that he cannot allow it to progress. "Enough," he says, and the budding fight stops. "Merlin cannot return to Camelot with us." It's the simple truth; Leon was right, Merlin would not survive the journey. "But I will not see him killed, either."

"You mean to seek out the druids?" asks Bors.

Ector snorts, incredulous. "More likely he means to leave him here to die alone, as he deserves."

Gwaine finally gets one arm free, and uses his elbow to smash Ector's nose in. Ector and Lucan both let go of him, Ector bent over his broken nose as it drips blood onto the ground, and Lucan reaching for his sword. Instead of a fight, though, Gwaine only reaches up and unclasps his red cloak, flinging it to the ground at Arthur's feet.

"Your knights can't seek out the druids without committing treason? Fine. Then I'm no longer your knight. I'll seek them out myself."

"Gwaine." It's Percival, trying to get him to see reason.

"No. This way Arthur gets to follow his daddy's rules, and I don't have to serve a man who would betray a friend like this."

Several men begin talking at once, mostly defending Arthur. He wishes they would stop.

He'd been about to ask for volunteers to aid in the search for the druids, anyway.

"Enough," he says again, but his voice is hoarse and they don't hear him at first. "Enough!" Once again, they quiet. "Gwaine, is this truly your wish?"

"Banish me, if it'll make you feel better," he replies. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"No," says Arthur. "I won't banish you. I… wish you luck. On your quest."

"Sire?" Ector's hand is still cupped over his broken nose. Lucan and Bors are both watching him in confusion.

"Merlin—" God, how it hurts to say his name— "used sorcery. But he also saved my life. The two deeds balance. I can neither reward nor punish him. Let… let the gods decide his fate." The words taste like ashes in his mouth, and Arthur swallows back the urge to vomit.

"You would leave him here to die?" asks Lancelot. He still kneels at Merlin's side, his hands covered with Merlin's blood, and he looks honestly confused that Arthur could even consider such a thing.

"He has a champion in S—in Gwaine," says Arthur. "And even if he could survive the trip back to Camelot, my father would only see him executed. Leaving him here is his best chance to survive."

That's what Arthur tells himself, anyway. It's just as likely that Merlin will endure a slow, agonizing death, which Arthur will be attempt to absolve himself of by saying he had nothing to do with it.

But he does, because he stabbed him.

He stabbed Merlin.

"We need to return," he says. "These bandits were too well-equipped. I suspect that Bayard is paying them not to attack Mercia, and convincing them to turn their attentions to Camelot instead. My father must hear of this."

He begins issuing orders, to fetch the horses, to prepare Gaheris's body for travel. One by one, slowly, reluctantly, the other knights move away from the scene. Arthur can feel the men watching him, especially the men he knighted personally, and it makes him want to scream. Lancelot and Gwaine, in particular, stare at Arthur as he issues his commands, neither man moving from Merlin's side.

Arthur cannot bring himself to look at Merlin as he steps away.

"Gwaine." He beckons the other man over, but the knight—former knight?—only snorts.

"Save it, Arthur. Whatever you have to say, I don't want to hear it."

"Yes, you do."

Gwaine sets his jaw and narrows his eyes, but comes over anyway. "If you think anything you say will make me forgive you for this—"

"Head west," Arthur interrupts. "You'll come to a lake between three hills, and if you turn north, you'll find the place the druids were last seen."

Gwaine is silent.

"I had been about to ask for volunteers to find them. For Merlin. But Ector would surely have reported that." And he would have, to the other knights, if not to Uther. Until Arthur is king, his hold over the knights is not absolute, and Ector could easily turn over half of them against him with one wrong word. "Plus I cannot trust that he, or Bors or Lucan, would have gone to seek them with peaceful intentions. But I know that you are Merlin's friend. You'll do everything you can for him."

Gwaine studies Arthur for a long moment, then says, "Aye. I will."

"That is all I can ask."

"He might still die."

Arthur has to take a deep breath before he can speak again. "I know."

Gwaine nods, then glances down. "You ever going to let go of that?" he asks, and Arthur frowns.

In his hand, he's still holding the bloody dagger. His hand is covered in drying blood—Merlin's blood—and his grip is so tight that it's starting to hurt, now that he's aware of it.

His old weapons instructors would have beaten him for dropping a weapon rather than cleaning it and putting it away properly, but Arthur's not sure he'll ever be able to bear looking at this one again, never mind using it. One by one, he pries sticky fingers away from the hilt, and casts it at Gwaine's feet. Gwaine, for his part, raises an eyebrow, but before he can say anything, Arthur turns away.

* * *

The knights, minus Gwaine and Merlin, and with Gaheris's corpse slung over his saddle, mount up and leave that place, and Arthur never once allows himself to look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really, really not expecting the overwhelming response to the first chapter. Thank you all. It's been about four months since I last posted anything, and that time was spent partly trying to write an original novel. That's not really going anywhere at the moment, and this plot bunny hit me over the head and refused to let go, so here we are, with me back to writing fic again.

Percival is one of the last men to mount up, and he looks at Gwaine with sad eyes. "Come back to us," he says, and Gwaine isn't sure what to say at first.

"That'll depend on Merlin," he answers finally.

Lancelot takes a moment to whisper a few words of reassurance to Merlin before he stands, and clasps Gwaine's arm. His hand leaves a bloody mark on Gwaine's sleeve. "Take care of him."

"Of course."

At the edge of the clearing, the other knights are already waiting, and Gwaine looks up to see Arthur carefully not watching them as Lancelot goes to his own horse. Anger burns in Gwaine's gut, but it's tempered with confusion, and maybe a little disgust. Arthur has tried to mitigate what he's done by telling Gwaine where he might find the druids, but that doesn't take away from the fact that he's only searching for them in the first place because _Arthur stabbed Merlin_.

Several of the knights look back as they ride out, and Gwaine is treated to a troubled look from Bors and Lucan, and a glare of disgust from Ector, but Arthur himself seems to be pretending that Merlin no longer exists. Much good may the effort do him, Gwaine thinks.

Finally they are gone, and Gwaine kneels back down by Merlin's side. The other man is still curled on his side, only now he's shivering, which is a bad sign. "Merlin, can you hear me?"

Merlin nods, and swallows, but doesn't look up.

"We need to see if we can get you up, onto your horse. Get you to the druids. They'll put you right as rain again, just you wait and see, hm?"

Merlin shudders again and shakes his head. He says, "Hurts," in a whisper that stabs at Gwaine to hear.

"I know," he says, and squeezes Merlin's shoulder. "We'll take it slow and easy. Get you up, get out of here, and from there it'll be easy, yeah?"

Merlin doesn't answer at first, until Gwaine squeezes his shoulder again and he seems to realize that Gwaine is waiting for him. "I'll try."

"Good man." He looks around the clearing, seeing the bodies of the dead bandits, and gets an idea. "For now, just rest a bit, yeah? Gather your strength. I'm going to see if our friends have any provisions they won't mind us borrowing, now that they no longer have any use for them."

Rolling the bodies finds Gwaine a couple of purses of coin, one full of silver, which more or less confirms Arthur's suspicion that these men were too well-equipped to be the usual grade of ruffian; he also collects a few weapons, and a few cloaks. He can wrap Merlin in them, or possibly barter them to the druids for lodging and healing for his friend. He considers taking the boots for barter as well, but decides against it. The druids probably will have a hard enough time accepting cloaks from dead men, never mind the rest of their possessions.

If Gwaine is really lucky, he'll be able to find the bandits' camp and get a few more treasures for the road. His life before knighthood has taught him practicality, and he'll use every trick he knows to keep him and Merlin alive and safe until they can reach sanctuary, wherever that might be.

* * *

"All right, there, Merlin?" asks Gwaine, when he's done. He kneels down again by his friend's side, and gives him a quick once-over.

He doesn't like what he sees; Merlin hasn't moved, and his face is ash pale, his lips bloodless and the circles under his eyes pronounced. His hands are sticky with blood where he holds his neckerchief in place over his wound. His blood is soaking through the makeshift bandage, his shirt, and onto the ground. He's still shivering, and Gwaine is quick to tuck one of the bandits' cloaks around him. His blood will stain the cloak, too, soon enough.

"Cold," whispers Merlin, and Gwaine grimaces. He's going into shock, which is only to be expected, but Gwaine has seen men felled by relatively minor wounds after shock took over.

"Can you warm yourself up?" he asks. "Will your…" He pauses to lick his lips, more nervous than he should be, perhaps. "Will your magic help with that? I wouldn't ask, but it's important, Merlin. You mustn't let yourself get too cold, all right?"

Merlin shivers again, his teeth chattering, and he won't look at Gwaine, but he manages to nod. A moment later, his eyes flash gold, and he relaxes.

"Better?" asks Gwaine. He feels the urge to brush Merlin's hair off his forehead, so he does.

Merlin nods again, and swallows. "Won't last. We should… get up. Now."

"Lancelot brought our horses. Do you think you can ride your own, or will you share with me?"

"…share," says Merlin. Privately, Gwaine thinks he's right. Merlin's likely to pass out soon and fall right off his horse. At least if they ride double, Gwaine will be able to keep him in the saddle.

"Good man," he says. Carefully, as gently as he's able, he pulls Merlin up to a sitting position. The other man's grunts and cries of pain, his little panting breaths, twist in Gwaine's gut and make him want to go out and kill something. Possibly Arthur.

Merlin looks even paler, if anything, after he's upright, and Gwaine doesn't fancy his chances of keeping him conscious if they try to stand up, so he simply slides an arm under Merlin's legs, wraps the other round his shoulders, and lifts. Merlin might be thin, but he's tall, and bones are heavy. No matter; he's been a better friend to Gwaine than many men he's known in his life, and Gwaine will be as strong for him as he has to be, for as long as his strength will hold. It's only a few steps to where their horses wait, anyway.

"Think you can hold yourself in the saddle for just a minute?" he asks, as he steps carefully across the clearing. "Just long enough for me to bundle our things."

"Think so," says Merlin. His eyes are squeezed shut tight around the pain, and he's still holding both hands over his wound. Gwaine can only hope that Lancelot was able to do something to bind it properly, but he probably didn't have time.

Once Merlin is in the saddle, barely hanging on and hunched over his wound, Gwaine gathers their belongings, both original and newly-liberated, and piles them onto Merlin's mare as quickly as he can. Next, he pulls his dagger and cuts one of the dead men's shirts into wide strips. They're not the cleanest, but they're better than nothing. Finally, he ties the reins of Merlin's horse to the back of his own saddle, and climbs aboard as smoothly as he can. He still jostles Merlin a little, and the other man makes a noise that only increases Gwaine's urge to kill something.

"Easy, my friend," he says instead. "Easy does it. Let's get you properly seen to, yeah? Can you lift your shirt for me?"

It's stuck to Merlin's skin, but together they peel it away, just long enough for Gwaine to press a thick pad of shirt linen to the wound, and tie it in place with strips. Merlin moans and sways in his seat, and Gwaine catches him with one arm and soothing words in his ear. "Almost done. I know. I know it hurts. I'm sorry. But this'll get that bleeding stopped, yeah? And then we can be on our way."

"'M sorry," whispers Merlin once he's steadier. "My fault you're out here."

"None of that, Merlin. You're my friend. You'd do the same for me, in a heartbeat. Wouldn't even think about it, now, would you?" He doesn't wait for Merlin to answer, just ties the bandage off as tightly as he dares, then nudges his horse's flanks to start them off.

West, Arthur had said. This might be the last time he ever listens to a word the Princess says, but it's all he's got to go on, anyway. The druids are as likely to be west of here as anywhere.

* * *

They ride slowly, as slowly as the horses will go without stopping to graze, and it takes until sunset before they reach a crest and Gwaine looks down to see a lake nestled among three hills, just as Arthur had described. From here, he's meant to go north.

"I only hope they're not much farther," he mutters to himself. Merlin lifts his head, and Gwaine is a little surprised; he'd thought the other man had passed out ages ago. If he says something, Gwaine can't hear it over the sound of the crickets in the undergrowth, but there is a tingle that runs up Gwaine's arms, and after a moment Merlin lays his hand on Gwaine's, where he's holding the reins, and gently nudges him north.

"Merlin?"

"I c'n hear them," he says. "Magic thing."

"Handy, that."

"Sometimes." He breathes for a few moments before he adds, "Not always."

"You saved Arthur's life today," Gwaine points out.

Merlin lifts one shoulder in a little shrug, but doesn't answer.

* * *

The horses pick their way down to the lake's edge, finding an easy path through the undergrowth that bears north just as it should. It is dark under the trees, so much darker than Camelot or any other town ever gets at night, but the horses still are able to see, and they are moving slowly enough that the odds of them putting a foot wrong are slim. Gwaine is more worried about getting a face full of tree branch than anything else, but it never happens. Occasionally he again feels that tingle run up his arms, raising gooseflesh, and wonders if Merlin is doing something with his magic to make the path easier.

If he is, Gwaine only hopes he won't wear himself out and die before they get where they're going.

They reach a fork in the path, barely illuminated by the moon shining through the trees. Gwaine stops, hoping to see something like tracks leading one way or another, but there is nothing. "Damn."

"What is it?" Merlin's voice sounds weak, thready, and Gwaine's worry that he's wearing himself out with magic only goes up a notch.

"There's a fork, and I can't see which way to go," he confesses.

Merlin has been slumped heavily against Gwaine's chest for the better part of the evening, but he raises his head, and Gwaine feels the hairs on his arms stand up once again. After a moment, he rests his hand on Gwaine's, as he did earlier, and nudges them to the left.

"Are you sure?"

"Few more miles," Merlin says, "'n' you'll see the fires."

"Don't wear yourself out."

"'M not."

 _If you say so_ , Gwaine thinks, and they ride on.

* * *

It is full dark when Gwaine finally spots a speck of light in the distance. The horses see it, too, and pick up their pace, making Merlin groan and stir a little where he's slumped against Gwaine. Gwaine reaches around and surreptitiously touches the bandage over Merlin's wound, and feels wetness on his fingertips when he pulls them away. He bites back a curse and takes a deep breath.

"Almost there, Merlin," he says, breath huffing against Merlin's neck. At least, he hopes the fire is from the druid camp and not from another pack of bandits. He's had that sort of luck in the past. "Just hang on a little longer, yeah?"

Merlin only moans again and rolls his head a little, as if too weak to lift it.

"Just a little longer," he repeats. "You still awake, Merlin? Can you hear me?"

Merlin barely lifts his head in a feeble nod; Gwaine feels his hair brush against his chin in the darkness, and little more. "You said before that you could hear the druids. Can you hear them now?"

"Mm…" Merlin tips his head back to rest on Gwaine's shoulder, and whispers, his breath hot on Gwaine's cheek. "They know we're coming," he says. "Soon."

"Soon?" But Merlin doesn't answer. His breath huffs into Gwaine's ear, making him shiver, but he does his best not to shake Merlin loose.

Perhaps a few minutes later, someone speaks in the darkness, "Whoa," and before Gwaine can even startle, there are hands on the reins, a shadow on the path before him barely visible in the moonlight dappling through the trees.

"And who are you, friend?" asks Gwaine, resisting the urge to draw a blade.

"You may call me Arawn," says the man. "You've been seeking us."

 _I've been seeking druids_ , Gwaine almost says, but then decides not to give himself away. If these are the druids, then he's safe and doesn't need to say anything. If they're not, he'll land himself in a heap of trouble mentioning druids within Camelot's borders. "Might be," he answers instead.

"You have." Arawn sounds awfully sure of himself, but not quite actually smug. "I will take you to Nesta, and she will do what she can for your friend."

"How do you know—"

"Your friend told us. We've been keeping watch for you for the past hour."

And there's nothing much to say to that, is there, Gwaine decides, and allows Arawn to lead the horses into the camp.

"Merlin?" he says quietly. "Merlin, can you hear me?"

The other man's head is still resting on his shoulder. It can't be comfortable, but it's near enough to Gwaine's ear that Gwaine can hear him swallow. "Thirsty," he whispers.

"We'll get you seen to soon enough," Gwaine replies in relief, as the trees give way at last to a large clearing. There are no torches, but one or two guttering lamps are enough to light the path and show him several scattered tents. "We're here. We've made it."

"The druids?"

"You led us right to them, my friend. Well done."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome to stop by and say hello on [my Tumblr](http://peaceheather.tumblr.com), if you like. I don't post much original stuff, but I try to keep up with my ask box, at least.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I happen to have my nights free right now, and am doing my best to write quickly and post each night as a result. Once my schedule goes back to normal, however, updates will almost certainly slow down. Still, I don't want this story to turn into a novel-length monster, so here's hoping I can wrap it up in a couple of weeks or so.
> 
> Thanks again for all your lovely comments and kudos! It's very gratifying to see that y'all still like me after I've been gone for so long.

Arawn stops the horses in front of a tent on the other side of the camp, set a little apart from the others. In the dim lamplight, Gwaine can just make out charms and talismans hanging from tree branches and tent poles, scattered all about the front of the awning.

"Bring him in," says another voice, a woman, just ducking out through the tent flap. "You must be Sir Gwaine," she continues. "I am called Nesta."

Gwaine would ask how she knows his name, but apparently talking over great distances is a thing that magic can do—or at least, that druids and Merlin can do—so he only replies, "Not sure I'm _Sir_ anything, anymore." Carefully, he dismounts, keeping one hand on Merlin the entire time.

It's a good thing he does, because Merlin nearly slides out of the saddle before Gwaine is ready to catch him. Luckily, Arawn is there, too, along with another two or three druid men, and between them, they get Merlin down and into Gwaine's arms. Merlin moans, and Gwaine shushes him. "It's all right. We're here. They'll get you healed up in no time."

"Thirsty," Merlin whispers again.

"I've a full skin of good clear water," says Gwaine. "We'll fill you right up, soon as you're comfortable."

The inside of the tent is considerably brighter in the lamplight, and Gwaine has to pause to let his eyes adjust. "Put him here," says Nesta, indicating a thick pile of soft furs, raised off the ground on a sturdy frame, higher than a typical bed. Gwaine hardly has to bend at all to settle Merlin into place.

Now that Gwaine can see his face again, his worry for Merlin winds even tighter through his guts. The other man's face had been pale before, but now he looks gray as a corpse. His eyes are barely open, and he seems unable to focus. "Merlin?" His shirt is stiff with dried blood, except for the shiny patch just over his wound that tells Gwaine his bandage has done little if anything to stop the bleeding.

"See if he will drink a little," says Nesta. "But be careful not to give him too much."

Gwaine has to hold Merlin's head up for him, but Merlin drinks and seems to revive a little after he's finished. "Hurts," he says, but he is actually looking at Gwaine for the first time all day.

"I know," says Gwaine. "But the druids will make it better, yeah?" He looks over his shoulder at Nesta, taking in her facial tattoos for the first time, and her hands, busy gathering herbs and what looks like a handful of crystals. "With their magic and all. Who knows, maybe you can help."

"Sorry," says Merlin. "That I didn't tell you."

Gwaine only shakes his head. "You had your reasons, in Camelot of all places. Don't worry about it."

Merlin tries to smile, but it only comes across as a pained grimace. "You don't think I'm dangerous?"

"Dangerous? Nah." Gwaine tips his head and thinks about it. "Not to me, anyway. Not to your friends."

"Arthur?"

"Not to Arthur, either. You saved his life today," says Gwaine. "Reckon you've done that a number of times that we didn't know about."

Merlin shuts his eyes and swallows as a shudder wracks his body. He opens them again and says, "Doesn't matter anymore, does it?"

Merlin's expression is so lost, so desolate, even through the pain he's in, that Gwaine's desire to go kill something is suddenly and viciously renewed. If Gwaine ever sees Arthur again, he vows, he'll issue a challenge, then and there, for what Arthur has done to his friend. It's obvious that the damage goes much deeper than a mere knife wound.

* * *

 

Arthur feels as though he's been stabbed himself, the farther they ride from the clearing where the battle took place. Where he stabbed Merlin.

His mind circles back to that thought, over and over again. Merlin is—was—his best, possibly his only friend. The only man to ignore, to see past, the trappings of rank, and to see Arthur for himself, flaws and all. He's no warrior, useless with a sword, yet he's saved Arthur's life more than once that Arthur knows of… and Arthur repaid that loyalty with a dagger to the belly.

Not for the first time, he swallows back bile, sour and burning in the back of his throat.

At the same time, though, Merlin has been revealed as a sorcerer. Can a man trust a sorcerer, ever? Is Ector right, that the only thing a sorcerer is good for is the chopping block or the pyre? Uther would certainly agree, as Arthur well knows, and he's been taught to believe the same thing over the course of his life. Magic has done horrible things to Camelot, to Arthur specifically, to Uther. To Morgana, the way it corrupted her and made her mad for power that does not belong to her.

And yet, Merlin clearly saved Arthur's life, today, with magic. Arthur still has the crossbow bolt with the curled head, the one that struck him in the kidney and should have killed him. Is Bors correct, that the merciful thing to do would have been to end Merlin's life quickly and cleanly, there in the clearing?

The ride back to Camelot is too quiet without Merlin's chatter, and with the tension among the knights. Many of them were with Arthur and Merlin in the keep of the ancient kings, where he knighted them and saw the pride and the trust in Merlin's eyes. Several others have lived through the Purge, and seen all the evil that magic can do.

Which of them are right?

Arthur can feel the knights watching him, and can imagine them trading significant glances with each other. He urges his horse on, seeking to get away from their stares and keep himself too focused on riding to dwell on the thoughts that won't stop chasing themselves through his head.

Merlin is a sorcerer.

Arthur has stabbed him.

* * *

 

Finally they stop to make camp for the evening. It's another half-day's ride from here to the citadel, and Arthur isn't sure he can bear being around any of his knights for even that much longer.

Merlin would have known now to help him calm his thoughts. But Merlin isn't here, because Arthur stabbed him. Arthur shuts his eyes and clenches his fist, desperately wanting to lash out at something, anything, to make his mind _stop._

Instead, he takes a deep breath and tends to his mount, while the others set up camp.

Without Merlin, because Arthur stabbed him.

Because he is a sorcerer.

Lancelot, of course, has about the same instincts for self-preservation as Merlin had, and approaches Arthur while he's still trying to get his mind cleared enough to be around other people.

"It wasn't your fault," he says, and Arthur takes a sharp breath in, ready to shred the other knight for daring to speak of it. "It was the middle of a battle and you were operating on instinct. You would never have deliberately hurt Merlin."

"He's a sorcerer," Arthur replies flatly. "Had I known…"

"Do you honestly mean to tell me that you would have had him executed? Or killed him yourself?"

Arthur glares, but the other man only waits patiently for his answer, damn him. "I'm not sure what I would have done." And that's part of the problem. Sorcerers are evil. Merlin is his best friend. The two statements _do not fit_ together. Either Merlin was betraying Arthur's trust all this time, as Ector has hinted at, or… or what?

"What will you tell the king, about today?" Lancelot asks.

"That is for me to decide," says Arthur, trying to shut down the conversation. He doesn't _know_ what he will say, not yet, and the fact that it isn't so easy to decide makes everything worse. He cannot tell Uther that he's stabbed his best friend, because Uther will care nothing for the welfare of a servant and would scoff at the notion that Arthur was friends with one in the first place. He cannot tell Uther that Merlin is a sorcerer and was allowed to live, for the king would order a patrol out specifically to find him and end him.

(Assuming he hasn't died already.)

He cannot tell Uther that he lost Gwaine today, because Gwaine is more loyal to Merlin—to a sorcerer—than he ever was to Arthur. Cannot bear to see Uther's suspicions about common-born knights borne out in Gwaine's apparent desertion and betrayal.

Lancelot must know that Arthur doesn't want to talk, must be able to read it on Arthur's face, but he only waits until Arthur meets his eyes and asks, "If not the king, what will you tell Gaius? Or Gwen?"

"Lancelot, you overstep," he warns.

The other knight bows, but still, _still_ , does not back away and leave Arthur the hell alone. "I only ask because, if you would prefer it, I could break the news to them on your behalf. I would spare you that pain, sire."

Or he would tell them something that would only make Arthur look worse, or better, than he deserves.

"No," he says. "No, I will tell them myself. But… thank you."

"Sire." Finally Lancelot bows again, and backs away.

* * *

 

The camp is too quiet as they eat, as they prepare their bedrolls, as they divide up the watch, as they settle in to sleep. No one quite makes eye contact with Arthur. He can feel them watching him, but whenever he looks up, they look away. Arthur has done wrong, in a different way depending on which knight is doing the judging, and now they are not sure where they stand with him, or whether he is trustworthy leader.

He stabbed his best friend.

He allowed a sorcerer to live.

Which is the greater sin?

Arthur turns in early, but does not fall asleep for a long time. When he does, his dreams are fitful things, flitting images that break apart rather than settle him deeper into rest. Images of his hand covered in blood, tightly clutching the dagger, flash through his mind several times. He wakes once in the night to the sound of Merlin desperately apologizing to him about something— _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Arthur, I'm sorry_ —and nearly gets up to soothe the other man before he remembers that Merlin isn't here.

Merlin might be dead by now, and Arthur will never know.

* * *

 

Nesta comes over finally, her hands full of herbs and crystals, with Arawn behind her, carrying a basin full of water and some clean cloths. Gwaine moves out of their way, but when it becomes clear to him that Merlin is afraid, he takes himself to Merlin's other side and clasps his hand tightly. Nesta sees this and smiles, and sets the bundle of herbs down. With her free hand, she caresses Merlin's forehead like a mother. "We will not allow anything to happen to you, Emrys," she says. Gwaine decides he'll ask who Emrys is supposed to be later.

The druid woman places the crystals at Merlin's head and feet, and one to either side of his shoulders and his hips. With a whispered word, they begin to glow softly, a bluish light that is picked up by Merlin's eyes. Arawn pulls a very sharp, bone-handled knife, and under Gwaine's _very_ watchful eye, cuts Merlin's tunic open, then the tie holding Gwaine's bandage in place. Gwaine doesn't relax until he sets the blade aside, and begins to carefully peel the bandage away from the wound.

It's a clean stab, he notes, but clearly a deep one. The edges of the wound pucker inward, and even after several hours it is still oozing blood, thick and dark. Merlin's belly is smeared with it; likely the motion of riding kept the wound from closing.

"Forgive me, Emrys," says Nesta, and she begins gently prodding at Merlin's belly. Merlin tosses his head and squeezes Gwaine's hand even more tightly, and begins to pant.

"What are you doing?" Gwaine demands.

"Making sure his intestine is intact," she replies. "If it isn't, corruption will spread through his entire body and kill him. I'm pleased that the wound itself does not smell of offal."

Merlin swallows again, and moans, low and long. He writhes when her hands get too close to the wound, his face twisted in pain, and Arawn lies across the tops of Merlin's legs to hold him still.

"I'm sorry," Merlin whimpers, his eyes rolling back in his head. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Arthur, I'm sorry."

"Hush, Merlin," says Gwaine, leaning in close. The crystal at Merlin's head shines right in his face as Gwaine murmurs in his friend's ear. "It's all right. You've done nothing wrong. Hush now, Merlin. Hush. It's all right."

"I'm sorry…" Tears are trickling down Merlin's face, from the corners of his eyes into his hair.

Gwaine wipes one of them away with his thumb. "I know. It's all right."

As soon as Nesta finishes her examination, Arawn gets off of Merlin's legs, and between them they wash Merlin's belly and wound clean of all the blood. Nesta holds up the bundle of herbs, and her eyes flash gold as she says a word in the tongue of magic. The herbs catch fire for a moment before dwindling down to smolder, and Nesta fans them over Merlin from head to toe, the smoke covering him in an aromatic cloud. Merlin coughs a little, weakly, rolling his head to the side.

"If there is any miasma of disease about him or the wound, the smoke will clear it," she explains. "And then I will speak healing spells to help stop the bleeding and close the wound. I dare not close it all the way, however."

"Why not?" asks Gwaine.

"If the miasma has already entered the wound, closing it would seal the sickness inside. I will stop the bleeding, but the wound itself must remain open for a day or two to allow the disease to exit his body. He is likely to take a fever, either way," Nesta adds in warning. "We will do all we can to keep it under control and allow him to fight."

"Help me undress him," says Arawn quietly, as he unbuckles Merlin's boots. "And then if you wish, you may help me bathe him. The cleaner Emrys is in body, the better Nesta's spells will work."


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur halts the men just before they reach the citadel the next day. "None of you will speak of what happened on our patrol," he orders. "Not to anyone, not even to each other." He makes eye contact with each one of them, and while none look happy, only Ector looks particularly rebellious. "I will strip the knighthood of any man who does," he adds, just to make certain that even the most stubborn of them will listen. Ector frowns, but looks away, and Arthur decides that that will have to be good enough.

They ride into the city quietly, and the bystanders who often greet them pick up their mood immediately. The lower town market falls quiet as they pass through, and people eye Gaheris's body, slung over his horse. He sees one or two people raise their fingers in the air as if counting the number of men who made it back.

Damn. Word will spread quickly, whether Arthur wants it to or not. And his order not to speak of it will likely only fuel further rumors.

* * *

 

Word moves faster than horses, it seems, for by the time they reach the citadel, Arthur sees both Gwen and Gaius waiting for him with worried expressions on their faces.

"My lord?" Gwen is properly deferential, but she cannot hide her confusion, nor her fear, when she looks and sees that Merlin and Gwaine are not with them.

"I must report to my father," says Arthur. Gwen presses her lips together, but doesn't answer, only dropping into a curtsey and stepping back out of the way. It is a weak excuse, and they both know it; Arthur is only delaying the inevitable, when he will have to break the news of what he has done to Merlin, to the people who care about him most.

* * *

 

Uther is in his chambers, looking out the window as he has often done since Morgana left them. There are maps and the remains of the noon meal at his table. It is one of his better days, then; Arthur has known the king to spend an entire day doing nothing, lost in his own thoughts, or perhaps his own regrets, trying to discover how and when he had lost his daughter to magic and madness.

Fortunately, today is not one of those days. "You have news from the border, I take it?" The question is asked listlessly, but at least it is asked.

Arthur draws himself up, and takes a deep breath. "Yes, sire. We defeated the bandits in the area, but they were too well equipped for a regular band. We have reason to suspect that they are being paid off by Mercia, bribed to leave Bayard's people alone and attack Camelot instead."

"Hmph. I see. Any losses?"

Arthur looks away for a second, Merlin's huddled form, his hand on Arthur's ankle, flashing before his eyes, but he knows Uther will care nothing for the loss of a servant. "We were ambushed, and lost Sir Gaheris." Then, with a burst of inspiration, he adds, "Sir Gwaine volunteered to… to spy for Camelot, across the border, and see if he could learn anything more about whether the bandits were truly being paid off, and where they might be coming from, so well-equipped."

Uther hums. He'd not been well pleased with Arthur's knighting the four commoners, but after the way they had fought and the losses Camelot had taken, he did not generally voice his objections. He is practical enough to recognize that Camelot needs men like Gwaine, and Elyan, and Percival, and Lancelot. "Did you set a time for his return?" He sounds as though he doubts they will ever see Gwaine again.

"No, Father. I hope to hear from him in a month's time. If I do not… if I do not, then I will ride out to search for him myself."

"Mm."

When Uther says nothing more, Arthur bows. "I will make the funeral preparations for Sir Gaheris, and see that his family receives compensation."

Uther gestures disinterestedly, returning to the window, and Arthur bites back a sigh before he turns and leaves the room.

He'd been worried about how to hide the truth of his actions from his father; now it looks as though he should have been worried about the fact that he _can_.

* * *

 

Arthur tells himself that it is in deference to Gaius's age that he goes to the physician's tower, rather than summoning the man to Arthur's own chambers, but he knows he is lying to himself. Gaius deserves to be in the comfort of his own home when Arthur confesses what he's done. He was able to cover it in front of his father—who is so disinterested lately that Arthur suspects he could hide a great deal from him, now—but the long walk to Gaius's tower only brings Arthur's nerves back to the fore.

Merlin is a sorcerer, and Arthur has stabbed him.

Even a day's ride to get away from the scene of the battle has not helped Arthur to clear his mind of this fact. It's something of a miracle that he didn't confess it to Uther, except that he knows Uther would hardly care. If anything, he would only demand to know why Arthur had allowed a sorcerer to live, even with a knife wound to the gut incapacitating him.

Arthur's still not sure why he did it, himself. Merlin was his best friend… or so Arthur had thought, before discovering him to be a sorcerer. What could Merlin have wanted from him? Is Camelot in danger?

When he arrives at the tower, Arthur briefly considers knocking, then decides that doing so would only make him look weak. Nervous. A prince, a future king, cannot afford displays of weakness.

Merlin would have mocked him and told him it was all right to be nervous.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, wishing with every fiber of his being that, just once, he could shirk his duty to his people. Then he opens the door without knocking, and steps inside.

The physician's tower is one of Arthur's favorite places in the castle, where Gaius tutored him as a child, where he could escape when he was feeling upset by something his father had said or done to him. It smells of medicinal herbs and whatever is cooking on the hearth, and the shelves are full of interesting things for a young boy to explore. Arthur has always secretly loved it here, almost as much as he loves the training grounds. If anywhere in the castle outside of his chambers is "home", it is here.

It smells of Merlin, even, a little bit. Or Merlin smells of the herbs and potions that are gathered here. Either way, the familiarity of the place only makes what he's about to say worse.

Gaius is here, of course, and Gwen is waiting with him. They both look up at him with apprehension on their faces, clearly fearing the worst.

"Sire," says Gaius after a moment. "Come in. Will you sit?"

Arthur approaches the work table, where he and Merlin had shared so many conversations and begun so many adventures together, and says nothing for a long moment. He does not sit down. He's putting off the inevitable, he knows, and neither Gaius nor Gwen has the rank to prompt him to speak up.

Merlin would have gotten him talking by now.

"I…" He clears his throat, swallows heavily, and tries again. "Our party was ambushed, near the border of Mercia. There was a battle, and…"

Gwen brings her hands to cover her mouth. "Merlin?" she asks.

"He lives. Or he did, when we left him."

Now Gwen's hands come back down, and she gapes at him in open confusion. " _Left_ him?"

Arthur cannot bring himself to meet her eyes. "He… in the battle, in the heat of battle, I turned and saw a man with glowing eyes behind me, lunging for me. A sorcerer. I… defended myself. It was only an instant later that I realized that the sorcerer was Merlin."

There are tears standing in Gwen's eyes now, and she shakes her head. "Oh Arthur, what did you _do?_ "

"I saw a sorcerer attacking me," snaps Arthur, "and I defended myself in the heat of battle. What do you think I did?"

Gwen shoots to her feet. "Are you telling me that you _attacked Merlin?_ "

"I didn't realize it _was_ Merlin!" Arthur takes a step away from the table, spins back. "How could I have, when I didn't know my own manservant was a bloody _sorcerer?_ "

"So you _attacked_ him?"

" _Yes!_ "

Gwen slaps him. Then her eyes grow wide at her own audacity, and she drops into a low curtsey. "My lord," she says, and her voice is trembling, though from anger or sorrow or fear, Arthur cannot say.

Abruptly, Arthur is past his nerves and exceptionally weary. Exhausted of the whole thing. "Don't. Gwen, don't. Please."

"I was out of line, my lord—"

"Stop _calling_ me that." He sits, finally, and takes Gwen's hand to pull her down beside him. "I didn't know he was a sorcerer. It was the heat of the battle, I turned, and I saw glowing eyes, and I reacted. I should've—" He stops, and drags a hand across his face. "It doesn't matter what I should have done."

"Will he be all right?"

"He lives," Arthur repeats. "He was—" _Stabbed._ "—wounded, badly, but there are druids rumored to be living in the area. Sir Gwaine volunteered to find them, for Merlin's sake." Sir Gwaine threw his cloak at Arthur's feet and claimed to no longer be Arthur's knight.

Gaius speaks up, and his voice is thready, weaker than Arthur has ever heard it. "I assume he was too badly injured to bring back to Camelot?"

At first, Arthur cannot answer. He's stabbed Merlin. The look on Gaius's face is entirely his fault. He swallows again, and says, "Yes. We were more than a day's ride from Camelot. And… he is a sorcerer. He could not return. The knights—"

"The _knights?_ " Gwen is shaking her head in disbelief. "The knights are Merlin's _friends._ They would not have cared—"

"Sir Ector wanted to know why I did not bring him back for execution, or else kill him then and there. Sir Bors was kinder, and thought we should deliver the mercy blow, end his suffering, rather than bring him back here so that my father could pass judgment."

Her tears spill over, and Arthur looks away. Gaius is pale, his hands resting on the table. There's something about his face, though…

"Did you know?" he asks. Suddenly it is the most pressing need ever, the need to _know_ who else has been keeping this secret from him. "Did either of you know he was a sorcerer?"

"Arthur, no, of course not," Gwen begins, but Gaius only looks sad and resigned. As if he's been expecting this outcome.

"Gaius?"

"For what it's worth, sire, he's wanted to tell you for quite some time. It was I who counseled him against it."

Arthur shuts his eyes. His best friend—for a long time, possibly his only friend—is a sorcerer.

And Arthur has stabbed him for it.

"How many other people know?" he asks.

"His mother, of course," replies Gaius. "But he has kept this secret for his own safety for his entire life. I know of no others who might be aware of his gifts."

 _His mother_. If Merlin dies, it will be Arthur's responsibility to tell Hunith of it. He will have to tell her that her son's been wounded, anyway.

Wait. "His entire life?"

Gaius nods. "Merlin told me he was born with his power, sire. He did not seek it out, as you may have assumed."

"That's impossible."

"I thought the same thing," says the older man, with a sad little smile. "Though if I may say so, there is rather a lot about magic that you don't know, thanks to Uther's edicts."

It's the gentlest reprimand he could give Arthur, and it still hurts more than it should. "I suppose I shall have to ask you to educate me, then," he replies, looking at the table.

Gwen's breath hitches in a little sob, and there are tears in her eyes. Arthur can't bear to look at her. "So you left him behind," she says. "What if he hadn't been so badly wounded?"

"He is a sorcerer," says Arthur. "There is no place for sorcery in Camelot. My father has made that very clear. I couldn't bring him back here to be executed… I couldn't allow that, I couldn't…" He trails off, completely unsure what to say. "My father would have had him thrown in the dungeons as soon as he set foot in the lower town. He wouldn't have survived the day. And you, Gwen, you'd be suspected of conspiring with him, everyone knows you're friends, and you've already fallen under suspicion once. You'd be lucky not to follow him to the headsman's block."

He means to scare Gwen into understanding why he did what he did, but she is stubborn and refuses to be cowed. "So you don't tell your father—"

"The knights know," says Arthur wearily. "I've ordered them not to speak of it, but there's every possibility that Ector or Bors or Lucan will go to my father anyway. I'm not sure Merlin will ever be able to return… and that's—" His voice cracks, and he swallows to bring it back under control. "—that's if he lives, anyway."

"The druids are skilled healers," offers Gaius. "We can only hope that Sir Gwaine was able to find them in time." When Arthur nods in grudging acceptance, he continues, "If it helps, sire… Merlin has only ever sought to protect you with his abilities. I know for certain he has saved your life, several times."

It doesn't help, actually, to know that he's repaid Merlin's care in the way that he has. But Gaius's words stir his memory; from his belt, Arthur pulls the crossbow bolt and sets it on the table for them to see. "He did it again, yesterday," he says. "Maybe more than once."

Gwen touches the curled up arrowhead with a fingertip. "This struck you?"

Arthur is still wearing his armor, so he stands and turns to show them the dent near his kidney. "I don't know what he did, but yes. It felt like I had been punched with a fist. It knocked me to my knees, but I know full well I should be dead."

As Merlin might well be, by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. Told you I couldn't keep up the pace of a chapter a day. I'm not sure this one is one of my best, but maybe that's just because the pacing in this chapter is necessarily different from the previous ones. I hope you enjoyed it anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

Gwaine doesn't want to leave Merlin's side, but once the spells have been spoken and the potions to ease pain have been drunk, there's nothing really for him to do but watch the younger man sleep. When Arawn offers him a place in his own tent, Gwaine accepts.

The next morning, Arawn's wife makes sure he eats something before he goes back to Nesta's tent to keep Merlin company. "You worry for your friend," she says. "I have seen it before. You will forget to take care of yourself, if you are not reminded."

Gwaine sighs, and thanks her, but can't dredge up his usual smile for a pretty lady. She is right; Gwaine has made it a habit not to get too attached to people, but Merlin has always been something special. He worries, and wishes he didn't care so much.

Merlin is awake when Gwaine ducks under the tent flap, and looking much better—or at least, much less close to death than he had. He smiles tiredly when he sees who it is, but Gwaine can still read the lines of pain in his face.

"How are you feeling?"

Merlin lifts one shoulder. "Like I've been stabbed," he says, trying to joke, Gwaine can tell, but the humor falls flat. Gwaine can see the despair in his eyes, and can't blame him for it. "This wasn't how I wanted him to find out. How I wanted anyone to find out."

"Did you ever plan to tell him?" Gwaine can't help but ask, propping one hip up on the edge of Merlin's bed.

"Someday. Every day. I don't know." He sighs, then grimaces as the motion jostles his injury, one hand creeping down to touch the bandage. "I wanted to tell him, always, but it never seemed to be the right time. And then, with Morgana…"

"Of course," says Gwaine. "And Arthur's been well and truly poisoned against the idea that magic can ever be used for good, thanks to Uther."

"Yeah." Merlin looks away wearily. "He'll never believe I wasn't hiding this from him for some nefarious purpose."

"I dunno," Gwaine counters. "It was pretty obvious you saved his life yesterday. Maybe more than once." He frowns, remembering the look on Arthur's face. "What was with that crossbow bolt?"

"Crossbow bolt? You mean the ones that those two bowmen shot at Arthur. I just turned them back."

"No, there was another one. Arthur picked it up off the ground near where he'd been standing. The head was all curled up, like someone had shot it into a stone or something."

Merlin shakes his head. "I don't… no, wait," he says, looking shifty. "I, uh—I _may_ have enchanted Arthur's armor to protect him better. If the bolt hit his armor, that may have been what curled it up like that."

"There was a dent near his kidney when he turned 'round, I remember that," says Gwaine.

"There you go, then."

"Enchanted his armor, huh?" Gwaine smiles. "Thought that sort of thing was complicated and took a long time."

"I clean his armor every night," Merlin points out, and Gwaine laughs. "Had plenty of time to work the charms into it, little by little. I imagine by now, nothing will get through it short of a dragon."

"Nice."

Merlin smiles too, for a moment, before his face falls again. "'Course, I don't know how long those enchantments will last, now that I'm not going to be there to keep them up. He'll get someone else to do all that for him."

"Nonsense. You'll heal up, and then—"

"And then nothing," says Merlin sadly. "That's all done, now. He'll never let me come back to Camelot, even assuming he wanted to see my face ever again. The knights all know, now. Half of them are Uther's men and would rather see me dead than anywhere near their prince."

"Never mind that he's your prince, too. Or was, I guess."

"No. He still is. Till the day I die."

* * *

 

Eventually Nesta comes in and shoos Gwaine away from her patient, and Gwaine finds himself at loose ends. Back before he came to Camelot, he usually traveled alone, fending for himself. He'd be either on the road or in a tavern by now, collecting his gambling winnings and using them to pay for his lodgings. Now, though, he's in a druid camp, with no plans to take to the road anytime soon; he figures the druids are not the type to have a lot of money on hand, nor to care overmuch about games of dice and cards.

He asks around to see if the druids even eat meat, and when he learns that some of them do, he heads off into the forest to see if he can scare up a few coneys for supper. He's got Mercian crossbows that he can take out next time, if he sees any sign of deer or boar, but for now he figures rabbit is the best he can do.

Gwaine does his best not to think too much, while he's out.

It doesn't work.

Merlin having magic: well, that's a surprise and no mistake about it, but it's not the earth-shattering revelation to him that it must have been to Arthur. He's lived outside Camelot for most of his life, after all, and seen sorcerers of varying strength and ethical standards, everything from healers like Nesta to court advisers to hired killers, who used spells to remove their enemies before they even knew what hit them.

Not many of those last, to be sure. And they were just as susceptible to a knock over the head as the next man, thankfully.

Gwaine has met priests of the Old Religion who tried to tell him things about his future, things he didn't want to know. He's met people who were perfectly willing to enchant his dice to always turn up the way he wanted them, in exchange for a hot meal and a bit of strong drink to ward off the evening's chill. He wonders, frankly, where Merlin might fall on the grand spectrum of magic-users he's known. Did he come from a land where it was celebrated, or mistrusted? Why did he come to Camelot in the first place, and why, by all that was holy, did he choose to stay for more than ten minutes?

Well, he knows the answer to that one, really. For Merlin, everything eventually comes back to Arthur. Not that Arthur particularly deserves Merlin's attention, just now. Gwaine scoffs, halfway through gutting a rabbit. Nobles. Merlin really thought Arthur was different from the usual cut, and Arthur had almost fooled Gwaine into thinking Merlin was right, but when push comes to shove, it looks like Arthur is just as willing to treat his men like they're expendable as any other noble Gwaine has met.

He sighs, and makes his way back to camp. To be fair—not that he wants to be—Arthur had looked devastated at what he'd done to Merlin. And it's obvious that the two men are close, or were before this. Gwaine wonders what Arthur would have done if Uther's knights hadn't been there to witness Merlin's magic, whether he'd have abandoned Merlin, whether the other common knights would have been willing to keep Merlin's secret.

He supposes he'll never know now.

* * *

 

By the time Gwaine returns, it's early in the afternoon, and the fever that Nesta had predicted is beginning to take hold. Merlin is drowsy with the heat of it, and his otherwise pale face is flushed across his cheeks and nose. He's thirsty, still, and Gwaine and Nesta take turns giving him water and various potions.

"Some are for the pain," she explains. "Some are for the fever. Others are to stave off disease."

The ones for the fever don't seem to work. By nightfall, Merlin is tossing his head restlessly, alternating between shivering and picking listlessly at his covers, too weak to throw them off.

"It's too cold," he whispers.

"Hush, Merlin," says Gwaine. "That's your fever talking. It's not cold at all, you're just hot."

"I know, but I can't stop shivering."

"Here, let me pull up another blanket for you."

At first, Merlin settles, but then, "No," he says after a minute. "No, that's too hot. I'm too hot, Gwaine." His voice is fretful, querulous like an old man's, and something about that makes Gwaine wish he could be anywhere but here.

But he won't leave Merlin, not now. Not when Merlin's already lost everything dear to him.

* * *

 

Merlin's fever climbs through the night, making him go from drowsy and fretful to sleeping, his breath quick and shallow. Gwaine has nothing better to do than sit by his friend's bed, watching as he grows quieter and quieter, and hotter and hotter. He moves aside only when Nesta comes to change Merlin's dressings, revealing a wound that has gone puffy and red around the edges with infection. The whole area looks swollen and angry, and Gwaine doesn't like the look of it at all.

Neither does Nesta, who frowns and mutters spells over it, and lights more of the smoldering herb to blow smoke across Merlin's belly before she replaces the dressing. Her eyes flicker with gold, and sometimes Merlin seems to cool down a little, but only for about an hour or so before his fever starts to climb again.

By sunrise, he's delirious. Gwaine is woken from a light doze by the sound of Merlin's voice, mumbling gibberish. For the most part, there are only broken syllables, parts of words, the sort of thing people say in their dreams. But not entirely.

"Don't put that there," he says once, perfectly clearly. "I just cleaned that." Gwaine huffs a little laugh. Of course he would hallucinate doing his chores, likely in Arthur's chambers.

Later on, "Mother." Merlin's eyes slit open for just an instant, hazy with fever, gazing at something only he can see. When they close again, they dart back and forth beneath his lids, as his lips move soundlessly.

Gwaine, Nesta, and Arawn all take turns bathing Merlin, draping him with cool cloths, and in Nesta's case, speaking spells.

"Why aren't your spells doing more?" Gwaine asks, exhausted. He doesn't mean to sound accusatory, and fortunately Nesta seems to understand that.

"I am a healer, yes, but as far as sorcery is concerned, I am not very strong. I am doing all I can for him, but I know it is not very much. Especially not when his own magic sometimes fights mine."

"He's fighting you?"

The druid woman only shrugs. "It is to be expected. He feels a magic moving through his veins that is not his own. Of course he will try to reject it, instinctively, for his own safety."

"You're saying that you could heal him better if he weren't a sorcerer." Gwaine frowns, trying to understand.

"It's possible. But usually those with magic eventually recognize the feel of my own spells as nothing harmful, and they stop resisting. After that, their magic will help mine, and the healing will go well. You'll see." Nesta smiles, and rests one hand on Gwaine's arm. "I promise, I will do all in my power to bring his fever down, and help him through this fight."

* * *

 

It's midmorning, and hot and stuffy inside Nesta's tent, when Merlin first performs magic.

He's muttering to himself, occasionally raising his voice as though agitated, while Gwaine staggers through the latest round of exchanging warm, damp cloths for cool wet ones. The furs beneath Merlin's naked body are soaked, and smell of wet dog, or whatever animal they originally belonged to.

"Arthur," says Merlin, panting. "Arthur."

"It's all right, Merlin," says Gwaine, on the off chance that the other man can hear him. "Arthur isn't here right now, I'm afraid, but once you're well I'll be happy to carry any message to him that you like." Along with a thrown gauntlet and likely a few thrown punches, but Merlin doesn't need to know that.

Merlin stirs restlessly, then whimpers as the motion twists across his belly. "Arthur…"

"Shh, Merlin. Hush now. It's all right."

In response, Merlin clenches his fists and his jaw, then says something loudly in a language Gwaine has never heard before. It's not the usual broken syllables and gibberish, Gwaine's certain of that, and even more certain when his arms break out in gooseflesh and the crystals surrounding Merlin light up a brilliant white. Merlin flings one hand out, nearly striking Gwaine in the chest, and there is a sudden ripple of force that emanates from Merlin's body. Gwaine is pushed back a step and nearly falls on his arse, and the walls of Nesta's tent billow as though a strong wind is blowing.

Nesta had gone outside to bring Gwaine something to eat, and she comes back inside running. "What was that?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," says Gwaine.

Her eyes are wide as she looks at the crystals glowing around Merlin's body. "Impossible." She shakes herself and smiles a little, in wonder. "Although, it is Emrys. I suppose nothing is impossible for him."

"What's impossible?"

Nesta turns to him, looking a bit shaken, but also a bit as though she's experienced something holy. "I've never heard of anyone being able to work magic without conscious thought behind it. Your Merlin is more special than you know."

Gwaine doesn't exactly find that reassuring, just now, as Merlin kicks one leg and tosses his head, falling back into his delirious ravings once more.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur spends one day trying to go about his business as normal, and fails at it utterly. Everything goes wrong from the very beginning of his day, when a servant who is not Merlin wakes him and brings his breakfast—Arthur throws the boy out rather than allow anyone else to dress him—through training, where Merlin is not on the sidelines waiting with a cup of water and insolent asides, and into council, where he is unable to concentrate on anything the noblemen have to say. All he can see when he closes his eyes are his hand, tight around his dagger, spattered with Merlin's blood, or else Merlin's hand, desperately gripping at Arthur's ankle, in a posture of abject begging that leaves Arthur chilled just to think about.

He returns to his chambers and sees all the little signs of Merlin's presence there: the clothing in the wardrobe, arranged according to some system only Merlin could explain; the laundry piled in one corner that Merlin kept promising to get to and then not, because Arthur would assign him some other petty task just to needle him; the papers and quills and ink on Arthur's desk, which Merlin was always careful to lay out just so.

Arthur throws a tantrum, flinging things off his table and desk, ripping the bedding off the mattress, and kicking his laundry out of its tidy pile and into the middle of the room.

Merlin is a sorcerer, whom Arthur has allowed to get this close to him.

Merlin is Arthur's best friend, whom Arthur has stabbed.

When he is finished, Arthur stands in the middle of the destruction, panting and ashamed. He takes several deep breaths, willing away tears, and finally straightens his tunic and goes to find Gaius.

* * *

 

"You harbored a sorcerer, despite knowing my father's feelings on the matter, and the laws of Camelot," he says, sitting down at the work table in Gaius's chambers.

Gaius, to his credit, only raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Are you here to arrest me?" he asks, and Arthur sighs. He certainly ought to be.

"No. I'm here to try to understand."

Gaius studies him in silence, long enough to make Arthur want to fidget like a little boy again, before he nods. "You have grown into someone who might be ready to hear the truth," he says.

Arthur frowns. "You imply I've been lied to." Gaius only sighs and shakes his head, and Arthur gets it. "My father's bias."

"There are things I swore an oath not to speak of, sire, but I believe you've learned of them anyway. Concerning the origins of Uther's Purge of magic from Camelot."

"My mother's death, and how I was born of magic," says Arthur. "But Merlin told me—" He closes his eyes, feeling like a fool. "Merlin lied."

"Merlin kept you from killing your own father."

Arthur clenches his jaw and looks away, at the door to Merlin's room, at the hearth, at his own hands. "So the vision of my mother was real? I was conceived through magic, and Uther took his revenge on innocent people?"

"They were sorcerers," says Gaius dryly. "Are you truly prepared to accept that they may have been innocent despite having magic?"

Arthur blinks in realization. Wily old man, leading him to this conclusion. "I was taught that magic corrupts. And look what it has done to Morgana."

"Morgana was corrupted by fear, sire, and only then by the power that allowed her to prevent that fear from ever coming to pass. Liberation is a heady feeling; I confess I cannot wholly blame Morgana for the path she chose to take."

"Fear of what?"

"Of being caught with magic in Uther's household, of course," says Gaius. "Her dreams, her nightmares, came true, sometimes, and Morgana feared she was going mad. I did nothing to help, refusing to let her entertain the very notion; I thought that if she did not get to know her own abilities, they might fade, and she would be safe. But then her powers expanded to include magic as well, and still I did nothing to aid her. Whatever Morgana has done, I feel as though I must take some of the blame for it, sire. Just as I must take some of the blame for Uther's actions, which I did little to stop."

"Father does not have magic," says Arthur, and Gaius only frowns at him, unimpressed.

"Do not be obtuse, Arthur. It is not magic that corrupts, it is power. Can you honestly say you have never once abused your own power, as a prince? Or that Uther has always been just and fair as king?"

Arthur thinks of all the little ways that he has lorded their difference in positions over Merlin, just for a bit of fun, and grimaces, ashamed again. And he already knows that Uther is a hypocrite, willing to slaughter those who are merely accused of sorcery, never mind those who actually have it or have used it as he has.

"Merlin has… power," he says slowly. "Are you trying to tell me that it won't corrupt him, just as it has Morgana?"

"Merlin isn't afraid, as she was," Gaius explains. "He's always known what he was, what resided in his veins, although he has wondered why he was born the way he was. And besides," he adds with a smile, "you've met Hunith. She'd have boxed Merlin's ears if he'd ever gotten such ideas into his head."

Arthur can't help the little huff of amusement at the thought. "True."

Gaius pats his hand, which is a bit forward of him considering the difference in their stations, but Arthur appreciates it all the same. "I know I told you yesterday that Merlin was born with his abilities," Gaius says, "but it wasn't until he came to Camelot that he realized a purpose for them. And that purpose has always been to protect you, sire."

"Me?"

Gaius rummages through the clutter on the table and holds up the crossbow bolt that Arthur had left behind the day before. "Consider that if Merlin truly wished you harm, he would not have needed to curse you, or to do anything magical at all to you. He would have needed merely to stand aside and allow others to get past him to you. He has saved your life several times, and this is only the latest."

"And he's, what, adopted me as the target for all his _beneficent_ magic?"

The old physician presses his lips together, and at first Arthur thinks he's annoyed, but then Gaius takes a deep breath as though reaching a decision. "I don't know what will happen if I tell you this, Arthur, but… just as Merlin has a higher purpose for his power, so do you. It is widely believed that you are destined to become a great king, in fact quite possibly the High King of all Albion. There are prophecies written about you and the future you will bring about, for both magical and non-magical people. And in those prophecies, always, you are guided by the greatest sorcerer ever to have lived or walked the earth. And that is Merlin."

"He's that strong?"

"He is, sire."

Arthur takes a breath, uncomfortable. The notion of inheriting Camelot has always been intimidating enough, but to be high king: that is rather a tall order even to consider. And the notion that he would not get there without Merlin's help… "Guided, or manipulated? Controlled?"

Now the older man frowns at him, his countenance severe as though he has done something especially stupid. Arthur hasn't seen that expression since he was little. "I shall ask you to think on all that you know of Merlin, and then ask yourself if he has ever once tried to force you to be someone other than the best possible version of you that could exist. The king that Albion needs."

"All I know of Merlin has been a lie," says Arthur, the awareness making his eyes burn and his chest hurt.

But Gaius only replies, "Has it?" and will say nothing further.

* * *

 

That evening, Arthur returns to his chambers to find them spotless. His wardrobe has been refilled, the clothing all arranged by color; the dirty laundry and the remains of his meal are gone. His writing materials are stacked neatly on one side of his desk.

All trace of Merlin's presence has been erased, and Arthur thinks he feels even worse now than he did before. Not only is Merlin gone, but there will surely be gossip among the servants about Arthur's little outburst.

He sighs, and moves about the room listlessly, touching things here and there, picking them up and setting them down again. Considers rearranging his desk the way he prefers it, the way Merlin always kept it, and decides it will keep for tomorrow.

* * *

 

Arthur sleeps poorly, and gives up and gets out of bed just a little after sunrise. A hunt will do him good, he thinks, or at least give him an excuse to get out of his chambers and away from all the reminders of Merlin's presence. Even with his rooms cleaned, they still remind Arthur of far too many nights spent together, he working on reports while his servant puttered about and kept him company.

He strips out of his sleeping clothes and drops them on the floor.

"Don't put that there," he hears Merlin say. "I just cleaned that."

Arthur whirls, half-naked, but there is no one there. "Merlin?" he asks tentatively.

There is no answer.

He's stabbed his best friend, who may be dead by now, so naturally Arthur has taken to hallucinating him by his side. Of course. Makes perfect sense.

* * *

 

He's well out of the castle and into the surrounding forest by the time he would ordinarily be eating breakfast. He brought a crossbow with him, just in case he spots something, but has no plans to actually use it. He hasn't brought beaters, or hounds, or any of the other usual requirements for a successful hunt.

He needs to think.

Merlin is a sorcerer. Merlin's sorcery has, according to Gaius, always been used to protect Arthur. Arthur would bet a prize mare that Merlin's sorcery has also been used to complete some of his chores, lazy sod that he is.

But why can't he picture Merlin doing anything malicious with all that power? The other man has lied and hidden himself from Arthur for years; like Morgana, like Uther, he's presented himself as one sort of person while being completely another. He's a hypocrite… isn't he? He got close to Arthur for a reason, didn't he?

Or is he just trying to survive in a kingdom that would see him dead merely for existing? Didn't he get close to Arthur only by accident? Arthur casts his mind back, and he's pretty sure he remembers the other boy being just as surprised as Arthur had been himself, when Uther appointed him to the royal household.

As for hypocrisy, isn't Arthur the hypocrite, for claiming Merlin as his best friend and then stabbing him in the heat of the moment?

 _It was a battle_ , he tells himself. _You acted on instinct. There was nothing you could have done._

This does not make Arthur feel any better about it. He's stabbed Merlin.

 _You stabbed a sorcerer. You're_ supposed _to stab sorcerers._

But not this one. Not a sorcerer who has become Arthur's best friend.

Can a sorcerer be Arthur's friend?

…Merlin can. Arthur may not want to admit it to anyone, even to himself, but he cannot afford to shy away from the truth, and this is the truth.

Does that make Merlin the exception to the rule that all sorcerers are evil, or does it make Uther's teachings a lie?

Arthur sighs. He's already pretty sure he knows the answer to that question.

If sorcerers are not automatically evil, what does that mean for Arthur? Will he change the laws when he's king, or simply stop enforcing them, and stop persecuting magic users so openly? Will Merlin be able to return to Camelot in his lifetime? Will he want to?

Is he even alive?

Will Gwen and Gaius forgive Arthur for what he's done?

Can Arthur forgive himself?

* * *

 

It's midmorning, and hot, when Arthur finally decides to turn back. He has no real answers to any of the important questions: he knows that Merlin can't return to Camelot, even if he lives, and he knows that he will have to wait a month before he can go in search of Gwaine and discover whether or not Merlin has survived. Arthur still may not be completely reconciled to the fact that Merlin is a sorcerer, but he definitely is not reconciled to the fact that he's stabbed him.

A crashing through the underbrush catches his attention, but the growth here is too thick to see what might be coming. Quickly, Arthur pulls his crossbow off his belt, but his hands fumble at the case of bolts, just as a wild boar bursts into view. It's enormous, and its tusks gleam in the morning sun as beady eyes focus on Arthur.

Arthur's eyes go wide, and he starts looking for the nearest tree to climb, but it's too late. The boar, regardless of what originally angered it, has decided that Arthur is a prime target for its rage, and it's charging and going to gore him and he's going to die out here alone and

"Arthur!"

A wave of force rips across the clearing, knocking the boar tumbling into the underbrush. Arthur staggers back, but his hands find the crossbow bolt and he's able to ready a shot before it gets back onto its feet. It shakes its head as if stunned, then focuses on Arthur again, and just as it prepares to charge, Arthur shoots it in the eye.

It screams, and drops dead, mere feet from where Arthur is standing.

"Merlin?" he asks again. He is absolutely certain that he heard his servant's voice, and he has seen magic throw his knights and himself around often enough that he knows exactly what just happened to the boar… but there is no one else here. Arthur stands still, even holding his breath to hear better, but nothing but birdsong and the wind through the trees reaches his ears.

"Uh. Thanks?" he says anyway, feeling foolish. Then he hangs his crossbow back onto his belt and draws his knife to gut the boar, so he can haul it back to the castle, looking over his shoulder all the while.


	7. Chapter 7

The boar is well-received by the kitchens that afternoon, even though there is no feast planned. Likely they will hang the meat up to cure until it is tender, and then there will be pork on the menu for several nights running.

Arthur is exhausted from hauling the great beast back to the castle on his own; he'd had a little help from a merchant who was willing to lend his cart in exchange for a haunch for his family, but he still had to haul the carcass out of the woods and up to the road without aid, and now he's filthy with sweat and blood. On his way to the kitchens, he makes sure to order a bath brought up to his chambers.

The tub is waiting but still only half-full when he arrives; Arthur watches the servants come and go with buckets and waits until they're gone before he starts to strip. He dips his hand in the water; it's only lukewarm, not quite his preference, but it'll have to do. He peels out of his sticky shirt, careful to drop it in the actual laundry pile this time, and lets the air cool him a bit while he shucks his boots and trousers.

When he goes to climb into the tub, he yelps and jumps back, nearly falling on his arse. The water is _hot_ , steam gently rising from the surface, and there are herbs floating in the water that weren't there just a minute ago, giving off a crisp, clean scent.

It's the bath that Merlin always used to draw for him.

But Merlin isn't here.

* * *

 

The rest of the evening is nothing much to speak of; he bathes, he dresses, he goes to dinner in his father's chambers. There is almost no conversation between them, Uther lost in his thoughts as he has been increasingly often of late. Arthur doesn't even bother to boast about the boar; he gets the impression that there will be no boar's head trophy at a feast, nor much in the way of feasts themselves, anytime soon.

Not that he's in a mood to celebrate anything.

* * *

 

He enters his chambers with a sigh, the red light of sunset slanting through his windows, and begins to unbutton his doublet. Merlin always used to tease him that he was incapable of dressing himself; Arthur had never had the heart to admit to him that half of that was just him needling Merlin. He might be a pampered prince, but he isn't _that_ spoiled. He only really needs assistance with his most formal court attire. The rest, he just makes Merlin help him with to annoy him… or to get a few extra minutes of conversation in with a friend.

"Made", not "makes". _Made_ Merlin help. Merlin isn't here anymore.

His rooms are too quiet and feel too empty, without Merlin in them to needle Arthur right back.

Because Arthur stabbed him.

Arthur grits his teeth and finishes undressing in silence. The castle steward has already seen fit to reassign servants to clean his rooms; no doubt within a day or so he'll find someone to try and take over Merlin's other duties, dressing him and bringing his meals. Arthur's not sure how he's going to tell the steward that he doesn't want anyone else, even though he knows he'll need someone. He has to eat, after all.

Once he's comfortable, Arthur lights a few candles, sits at his desk, and begins going over reports. He's neglected them, these past few days, and the knights and guard outposts aren't going to requisition themselves. He loses track of time, working until the candles are half burnt down and his eyes itch, just approving the movement of food and funds from one place to another throughout the kingdom.

It is full dark when he finishes, twisting in his seat until his back pops, and he stands and stretches with a little groan. His sleep shirt and trousers are folded neatly on the end of his bed, so he grabs them and steps behind the privacy screen to change and prepare for bed. His chamber pot is there, along with a small table that holds a pitcher and basin and his shaving mirror. He feels along his jaw, deciding to take care of his stubble in the morning, and glances in the mirror.

He gets the fright of his _life_ when he sees Merlin standing behind him.

He jumps halfway out of his skin and spins around with a yell of "Merlin!", only to find no one there. His heart is racing in his chest and his hands are shaking as he turns his head, glancing at the mirror out of the corner of his eye.

Merlin's reflection is there, just behind his shoulder, as he's seen it dozens of times while he gets around in the morning. He is dressed as always, and looks completely normal, except for the sad little half-smile on his face. At the very least, he doesn't look as though he's just been stabbed.

Arthur looks back, but no, there is no sign of Merlin in his chamber anywhere except for Arthur's mirror.

"What?" Arthur can't help but ask. He sounds breathless to his own ears. "What the hell is going on?"

"Right, sorry," says Merlin.

"Merlin?"

When he turns again to the mirror, the other man's reflection is gone.

* * *

 

He lies in bed for hours after that, completely unable to sleep.

* * *

The next day Arthur wakes to the sounds of a stranger in his chamber, and nearly pulls a blade from under his pillow before he remembers that it is simply another servant who is not Merlin, attending to his basic needs. His eyes still itch with fatigue, and his head throbs as though he's got a hangover, all from the lack of sleep.

Arthur tells the servant to send word to Leon that the other knight will lead the training that day. He claims an upset stomach, in case Leon needs an explanation, and takes himself to visit Gaius as soon as he's eaten.

"I think I'm being haunted," is the first thing he says, once the door is closed.

Gaius raises an eyebrow, yet somehow manages to look only politely interested, rather than making Arthur feel delusional. "Sire?"

"It's Merlin. I _hear_ him, at random intervals, and last night I saw him in my mirror, but he wasn't there, and then there was the magic…"

"Magic?" The physician glances nervously at the door, and lowers his voice. "Are you quite certain?"

Arthur takes a deep breath and drags his hands through his hair. Then he sits at the worktable and tells Gaius everything.

"…and I just… I need to know," he says when he is finished. "Is he dead? Am I being haunted because of what I did, and is there a way to… to lay him to rest?"

"Well, sire," says Gaius, "it is _possible_ for those who feel extreme guilt or remorse to experience hallucinations, similar to what you've described. You might say it is your own conscience, refusing to allow you respite until you atone for what you've done."

"But that doesn't explain the magic," says Arthur.

"No, sire, you are correct." Gaius runs a finger across his lips, his gaze faraway. "While spirits can sometimes refuse to cross into the next world, or may even be brought back through powerful and dark sorcery, I've never heard of a ghost who was capable of performing actual magic in quite the way that you've described. Most such hauntings are of a malicious nature, a restless spirit wanting revenge, perhaps. Yet Merlin seems very clearly to be trying to protect you."

"I'd be dead, again, if _something_ hadn't thrown that boar across the clearing."

"Indeed, sire."

"And even that doesn't explain why he would scold me about dropping my things on the floor," says Arthur. "Or last night, when he appeared in my mirror. All he said was, 'Right, sorry,' as if he hadn't meant to disturb me, and then he vanished. That's not really malicious _or_ protective."

"No… hmm. There is one other possibility. Or rather, ordinarily I'd say it was _im_ possible, but this is Merlin we are talking about…"

"Gaius?"

"Hm? Oh. My apologies, sire. I'm afraid I was woolgathering."

Arthur wants to ask what about, but he is the prince and shouldn't have to request such things. He merely raises an eyebrow and waits.

"Er. Yes, of course," says Gaius. "It is simply… we've been speculating about whether or not Merlin is…" He takes a breath, steeling himself to say it. "…is dead, and his ghost is haunting you in some fashion. But there is also the possibility that he is _alive_ , and his magic is reaching out to you across the miles, instead."

"Is that something magic can do?"

"Apart from scrying—I suppose you could call it viewing or eavesdropping on other people from a distance—I would say no. But you and Merlin have always shared a special connection." Gaius folds his hands on the table and leans forward. "Do you remember a few years ago, when Merlin had first joined your service, and he drank from a poisoned goblet for you?"

"Yes, of course." How could he forget? Uther had basically condemned the servant to death in front of the entire court; either there was poison, and Merlin died, or there was no poison, and he would have been arrested and executed for false accusations against the king of Mercia.

"While I was tending to Merlin, even though he was apparently unconscious, he began to speak… to you, sire. From his words, it appeared that he could see what you were doing. At one point, he even cast a spell, creating a globe of light in his hand. I've never seen anything like it."

Arthur blinks. "In the Caves of Balor, when I thought I was trapped, there was a light that showed me the way out."

"Yes, I recall the tale."

"That was Merlin?"

"I have always thought so," says Gaius. "I asked Merlin, but he himself has no memory of it. He was delirious from the poison, at the time."

"So, you're saying…"

"I can only speculate, sire, but I believe that what you are experiencing is proof that Merlin is still alive."

* * *

 

Merlin is getting worse.

Gwaine really wants to throw something, or scream at the druids with their infuriating calm and their faith that everything will be fine.

Merlin is getting worse, and Gwaine has no idea what to do, and he's not that sure that Nesta really has any idea what she's doing, either.

His friend has not woken in over a full day, and his ravings have grown weaker, his voice hoarse from the constant muttering. Sometimes they can rouse him enough to take a little broth or water, or to swallow down a potion, but for the most part Merlin seems to have gone somewhere that Gwaine cannot follow.

He calls out for Arthur sometimes, and other times for his mother, or for Gwaine himself. It nearly killed Gwaine to realize that Merlin wasn't actually lucid, that time he said Gwaine's name.

"I'm here, Merlin, I'm here," he said, leaping up in the middle of the night, but the other man gave no response, only stirring fretfully before subsiding again.

His wound has turned ugly; the edges are crusted black with dried blood, but the whole area is swollen, red, and hot to the touch. When Nesta prods it, she makes Merlin cry out in agony, but keeps pressing until a thick, smelly, whitish ooze bursts forth that makes Gwaine gag to look at. Nesta only keeps after it with her fingers, Arawn catching the discharge on a cloth that he then tosses into the fire. "It contains the highest concentration of the disease," he explains. "We burn it to keep the miasma from spreading."

At least afterward, after Merlin's cries of pain have subsided to mere whimpers, his wound does not look worse. The blood Gwaine sees is fresh and bright, and the swelling does seem to have gone down somewhat.

"We will continue to give him what potions we can," says Nesta. To her credit, she looks almost as tired as Gwaine feels; he knows she has not rested for more than an hour at a time, and then only when he or Arawn have been there to relieve her. She is not neglecting Merlin, whatever else he'd like to say about her skills. "He is a fighter. There is still hope, Sir Gwaine."

Merlin performs magic two other times in his delirium, that Gwaine can tell. There is nothing quite so spectacular as the first incident, but beneath his flickering eyelids, his eyes flash gold, and Gwaine feels the hair on his arms stand up. Once, all the water in their tent, both in the wash basin and in Gwaine's own water skin, turns hot for no reason that Gwaine can determine. The heat seeps into his leg and when he tastes it, the water is nearly as hot as broth. Another time, he whispers something that Gwaine is beginning to recognize as the tongue of magic, from his own words and from all the chanting that Nesta has been doing, and then his eyes glow. It is not until a few minutes later that he simply says, "Right, sorry," and the feeling of magic fades.

Gwaine has no idea what Merlin is seeing in his dreams, to cause such strange effects, but he hopes they are good ones.

* * *

 

The next day, Merlin falls silent. Gwaine begins to hope that he's making a recovery, but a hand on this forehead reveals that he is even hotter than before. Nesta is able to express more of the whitish ooze from his wound, but not as much as the day before. This time, Merlin does not cry out.

Even so, Nesta actually seems grimly satisfied with this. "We are almost there," she says. She looks up at Gwaine with tired eyes. "Either the fever will break soon, or…"

"Or what?" he asks, dreading her answer.

"Or it will kill him," she says. "But I think it will break. His wound is cleaner today than it has been. That is a good sign."

Gwaine really, really hopes that she knows what she is talking about.


	8. Chapter 8

Merlin's magic is gone.

Just when Arthur thinks he could get used to Merlin being around—or if not "around", then at least having his magic following Arthur somehow, keeping his friend by his side even though he's miles away in reality—just when he thinks he's ready to accept Merlin's magic at all, never mind _having_ it following him around… just when he thinks he is finally going to be all right with that concept, it stops.

To be fair, it was only a couple of days, but now that he is without it, Arthur feels even more bereft than before, more lost.

He's stabbed his best friend, and as horrible as that was, having Merlin's _presence_ there in some fashion felt almost as though Merlin had forgiven him. Had still wanted to be by his side. But now, even that is gone, and Arthur is back to eating himself alive with the guilt of having possibly murdered the other man.

He should be less comfortable with the idea of being followed around by magic, spied upon, his chambers infiltrated by magic… but it's Merlin. Merlin has, or had, access to every aspect of Arthur's life. The man emptied Arthur's chamber pot, for God's sake, it doesn't get much more intimate than that. Arthur wrinkles his nose at the thought.

He's Arthur's best friend, is what he means to say, no matter how hard that may be to admit to anyone else.

He's a sorcerer, but he's Merlin.

He's lied to Arthur, but he's had good cause, whether it was for his own survival or to keep Arthur from doing something monumentally stupid. Like killing his own father. Arthur sighs at the memory.

(On the other hand, that does mean that Arthur really did get to see his mother. Her spirit was real. Morgause may still have wanted his father dead at Arthur's hand, but she had only manipulated him with the truth.)

The point is that Merlin's magic was here, and now it is not. Arthur had a dream the other night that has left him shaken for the past two days. He was walking through the Perilous Lands, alone, in sweltering heat with no water. Then, Merlin had appeared by his side and begun speaking to him in that earnest way of his. Arthur couldn't really make out any of what he was saying, but as is the way of dreams, that didn't seem important at the time. Finally, a woman appeared, just briefly, and touched Merlin on the shoulder. The two of them had smiled at one another, and then the woman vanished, and then Merlin's eyes flashed gold and it had begun to rain. Merlin had looked Arthur in the eye, and said something else, but now Arthur couldn't hear any of what he was saying over the sound of the downpour… and then the water had dissolved Merlin, bit by bit, until he had melted away and was gone.

Arthur couldn't hear the words, but the shape of them from Merlin's lips had looked like "goodbye".

Around him, the desert had turned green and lush, and trees sprang up from the sand and scrub brush, until Arthur stood in a beautiful forest, entirely alone.

Arthur had woken with tears on his cheeks, and the rest of that day, had looked for hints and signs of Merlin's presence. There were none to be found, however, nor have there been any since, in the two days since Arthur had that dream.

Merlin is gone. Arthur is not sure if this means Merlin has died, or if his magic is back where it belongs, in Merlin's body. The not knowing is likely going to drive him mad before the week is out.

* * *

 

He pushes himself hard in training that day, harder than he probably should, wanting to reach that state where his mind shuts off and there is only Sword and Movement, and Foe there at the other end of his blade. He concentrates, and nearly achieves it, and then Leon suggests blind-fighting.

If Arthur had been able to separate his awareness and _feel_ Merlin behind him, as a friend and not an enemy, his friend might not have gotten stabbed. Arthur would still not know about the magic, but neither would anyone else, and Merlin would not be exiled.

He wants to tell Leon that he isn't up for blind-fighting practice today, but knows that that would gain the knights' notice even more than his failing would. Arthur is actually a fairly accomplished blind-fighter, and usually acquits himself well, but a failure here in practice would at least be excused.

Besides, Arthur sees Ector, Bors, and Lucan among the knights watching today, and feels that it would be best not to give them cause to be suspicious.

He walks to the center of the ring, and accepts the blindfold from Leon's hand. When it is secure, a moment later, he accepts the sword.

He feels himself slip into the altered state of awareness that he reaches only when everything is perfect. His breath is the loudest sound he can hear; his heartbeat seems to slow; and yet, he is aware of everything around him. Every clash of sword, every footfall on the grass.

Blind-fighting goes _perfectly_. He defeats all his opponents, even when they stop coming at him one at a time and begin attacking in twos and threes. He hears the grunt of a sword impacting hard against armor, and the groan of men on the ground unwilling to get back up and try again.

It's euphoric. Arthur slips the blindfold off to cheers and applause from his men, chest heaving for air, grinning widely…

…and then he looks to the sidelines where Merlin always waits, and sees only an empty bench.

"Well done, sire," Leon is saying, but Arthur only shakes his head and tries not to scowl. He's ready to storm off the field in a rage, but that would only draw attention and he cannot afford that.

That's something Merlin made him aware of, somehow. Perhaps by always calling him on his moods when he didn't want anyone to see them.

Arthur only nods and passes the blindfold back to Leon. "Standard drills to cool down," he says stiffly, and walks over to the water bucket for a drink.

Merlin isn't here anymore, to dip the ladle for him, or to playfully insult his skills while he catches his breath.

Merlin isn't here, because Arthur stabbed him.

* * *

 

As it turns out, Nesta does know what she's talking about. Gwaine wakes from an exhausted slumber the next morning—closer to noon, to judge by the sun—and drags himself to Nesta's tent, only to find her also sleeping deeply. Gwaine frowns; she hasn't caught more than an hour's rest at a time while Merlin has been under her care, and even then she's made sure that either Gwaine or Arawn were here to keep watch over Merlin while she slept.

Gwaine turns, half-dreading what he will see, but Merlin is breathing slowly and deeply, bare to the waist, and his skin is covered with sweat. All this time, as his fever has risen, he's been either flushed or pale, but his skin has remained dry and hot. Only their constant bathing has done anything to help cool him. Now, as Gwaine watches, a trickle of perspiration slides down the side of Merlin's chest to drip into the furs. The thin blanket that protects his modesty is damp and clinging to his legs.

Gwaine can feel an incredulous smile working its way across his face. It looks like Merlin's fever has finally broken. Just to check, he rests a hand on Merlin's forehead, and sure enough, he is cooler than Gwaine has felt in days. Still warm, definitely still a little feverish, but so much better than he has been.

"Merlin, my friend," he says with a little laugh, "you just continue to surprise, don't you?"

"That he does," says Nesta from behind him. Gwaine turns to see her sitting up in her own pallet, her long hair unbraided for the first time since Gwaine has met her. She still looks tired, but there is a satisfied air about her that has been missing while she fought for Merlin's life. "Do you remember, when I told you that there is always a point where the patient's magic stops resisting mine, and begins to work with me instead?"

"Aye," says Gwaine.

"Last night, while you slept, I was able to… hm. I suppose you would say I touched Emrys's spirit. We didn't exactly speak, he is too deeply unconscious for such communication, and yet we were able to reach an understanding. Or perhaps it was his magic and mine that reached the accord. It is difficult to describe to someone who cannot feel it."

"I think I understand."

Nesta nods. "In any case, when next I spoke a spell of healing over him, I could feel it take effect more deeply than any of my other spells had. It was as if a seed took root in fertile soil. Within the hour, his fever had broken."

"I'm glad to hear it," Gwaine says with a sigh. He runs a hand through his hair. "He's had some close calls in his life, hanging around with Arthur and his knights like he does, but I think this might be the closest to dying that he's come, in the time that I've known him."

"He still has a long road ahead of him," Nesta warns. "Fighting the infection in his wound will leave him exhausted. It may be many days before he wakes, and even then he will be weeks regaining his strength."

Gwaine thinks of an adventure he once had where a strange little man had referred to Strength, Courage, and Magic, and smiles. "Well, until he does, he'll have me to lean on."

* * *

 

Gwaine finds himself at loose ends, now that he's not spending so much of his waking hours devoted to Merlin's care. Nesta sleeps the sleep of the righteous and the exhausted, now that her patient is on the road to recovery, and Arawn is back to tending to his family. Gwaine feels like an intruder every time he steps into their tent, to see Arawn and his wife together.

There are kids in the camp, though, running about and getting into everything like kids do, and Gwaine soon finds himself gravitating toward them just as they, in their curiosity, are drawn to him.

"Now what might your name be?" he asks one, but the boy doesn't answer, only stares at him with enormous eyes.

"That's Tegan," says a girl. "He only talks in his head."

"In his head?"

The girl shrugs. "You can hear him if you have magic."

"Ah," says Gwaine, "and here am I without a drop in my veins, more's the pity."

"But you're friends with Emrys," says the girl.

Gwaine tips his head thoughtfully. "About that," he replies. "Can I ask you something?"

The girl shrugs again, and the other kids begin to gather around. Gwaine spares a thought to wonder if Tegan isn't calling them over, "in his head" as the girl put it.

"My friend. You all call him 'Emrys'," says Gwaine. "But see, I know him as Merlin. I've never heard anyone else use anything but that name for him. What's this 'Emrys', then?"

"You mean you don't know the stories?" asks the girl.

"Lass, I didn't even know that there _were_ stories," replies Gwaine.

For the first time, the girl smiles. "Emrys is in all the stories," she says. "He chooses the Once and Future King and serves him, and the Once and Future King brings peace to all of Albion, and the druids can go where they like and not be afraid anymore."

For this little girl to talk so casually of the fear that the druids face is a little heartbreaking, to Gwaine's mind. "And the stories, they don't just call him 'Merlin'?" he asks.

"No, silly. That may be what his mother calls him, but his true name is Emrys. He's made of magic and he's forever, and now that he's come, everything will be better."

Gwaine raises his eyebrow, but before he can really think of anything to say, over half the kids look up as if hearing someone calling their names. Within seconds, they've all run off, and Gwaine looks up to see Arawn and an older woman approaching him. Gwaine stands, but neither of them seem particularly upset that he was talking to their kids.

"You have questions," says Arawn.

"Maybe a few," Gwaine allows.

The woman nods. "I am called Derwen, and I am the elder of this tribe. Something like its queen, in your terms."

"I'm Gwaine," he replies, "but you probably already know that. Recently of Camelot, formerly of Caerleon. I don't know that any of that matters to you, though."

"Here we judge a man by his character, and by what magic tells us of their true nature," says Derwen with a smile. "Will you sit, or do you prefer to walk? We have much to discuss."

* * *

 

"He's made of magic and he's forever," the little girl had said. Gwaine blows out a breath when Derwen is done talking, thinking that the child just might have had the right of it, learning from all her stories.

"You see, then, what a heavy burden Merlin carries," says Derwen. "Not Emrys, for Emrys was made for his destiny, but your friend, Merlin himself. He was brought up to believe that he is only human, and that is good, for a man with such power as he possesses needs to remain humble for the safety of us all. But his destiny is great, and his burden equally so. What he carries, some would say, is too much for one man to bear. Especially one as young as he."

Gwaine nods. "I wouldn't want it," he says, and means it. To watch over Arthur and guide him to greatness, never receiving recognition himself while being by far the more powerful of the two? Well, he supposes, that probably depends on how one measures power. One of them will be king, and that's plenty enough power to be going along with. Perhaps the two balance one another.

"He and Arthur do balance one another," Derwen says, and Gwaine starts, blinking at her in surprise. "Peace, sir knight," she adds. "I do not read your thoughts, only what I know of your character, and the expressions on your face."

It's a little unnerving to be known so well by a total stranger, Gwaine thinks, but if anyone were to get inside his defenses, he'd rather it be a druid and not anyone who means him harm.

"But Arthur and Merlin do balance," Derwen is saying. "They are as two sides of the same coin, not only in power—worldly and magical—but in personality and in character. When they clash, it is, hm, a spectacular thunderstorm sweeping the plain. Should they never fall back into balance, that would be bad for us all. But when they are in harmony, all is right with the world, and together they can accomplish impossible things."

"Doesn't seem to be much room in there for other people," Gwaine says, but the older woman only smiles.

"Not so. No man can be completely alone, and these two do not deserve to carry their burdens supported only by one another. How can a weary man lend aid to another? No, they do well with friends to support them. And you, especially, are the Strength that Courage and Magic will need to come back into balance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am traveling right now, so updates and responses to comments might be a little slow, but I'll do the best I can. Thank you to everyone who has been following along on this one!


	9. Chapter 9

Gwaine ponders Derwen's words for a long time, somewhat resentful because he's not known for being much of a thinker, and there's a good reason for that.

Strength is meant to bring Courage and Magic back together, eh? And just how is he supposed to do that? Gwaine is still of a mind to throw a gauntlet at Arthur's feet and make him see reason on the other end of Gwaine's fists. Although, thinking about it seriously, that just might work. Arthur isn't exactly known as a deep thinker either. He transmutes whatever he's feeling into anger, and then solves his problems by swinging a sword at them.

It's one of the few things he and Arthur have in common, really, even if Gwaine likes to think he's outgrown that phase of his life. Arthur is a few years younger than him yet, and has never really had to make his own way in the world. He hasn't learned that a man can't solve _all_ his problems by stabbing them.

Gwaine winces. Stabbing, however accidental, was what got them into this mess.

So what is he meant to do? Get Merlin and Arthur back together, apparently. It's a tall order, considering that sorcery is still extremely illegal in Camelot, and several of Arthur's knights—and more importantly, Uther's knights—saw Merlin perform magic to save Arthur's life. They have an accusation of sorcery and eyewitness testimony from Arthur's own mouth. Even assuming Arthur wants Merlin to return, Gwaine isn't sure he'll ever be able to.

Unless Uther dies, of course.

Now there's a thought. Not murdering Uther, Gwaine maybe be reckless but he isn't stupid, but perhaps holding out until Arthur is king and the law can be changed. Then Merlin could return to Camelot without fearing to have his head separated from his body. All Gwaine would have to do is keep Merlin company, keep him safe, until it's time to return.

But that would leave Arthur alone, and if the things Derwen said are anything to go by, he'd be unprotected from all manner of magical threats that only Merlin can stave off. What is Gwaine meant to do there? He can't be in two places at once.

He could stash Merlin somewhere safe and hope he stays there, maybe?

Who is he kidding; Merlin wouldn't stay put. He'd probably try to sneak back into Camelot and get himself killed.

Derwen had tried to convince Gwaine that Merlin might actually be immortal. Gwaine wonders if Merlin knows that, or if he should be told. Derwen likes that Merlin was "raised as a human", that he's humble and thinks of himself as a person, and isn't caught up in the allure of his own power. It gives Gwaine chills to think of what it might be like, not to think of oneself as a person. He can't imagine that Merlin would react well to being treated like a magical creature, like dragons and unicorns and all the rest. He's _Merlin_ , and as far as Gwaine is concerned, that's all he needs to be.

He sighs, and tosses another pebble into the stream before standing and brushing the dirt off the seat of his breeches. He's not going to reach any decisions sitting out here like a lump.

* * *

 

"He woke earlier," says Nesta, when Gwaine ducks under the feathered charms and steps into her tent. "Only for a little while, but I was able to get some water into him."

Gwaine feels a knot in his shoulders loosen, one he hadn't quite been aware of until it went away. "How's he feeling, then?"

"Tired, as I expected," she replies. "And I fear he will have a hard road ahead of him, as he recovers."

"The wound did get infected," says Gwaine, but Nesta shakes her head.

"No. He will heal from that. But I fear for his heart. I think he despairs, now that he is separated from his other half."

And Gwaine can only sigh at that, because wasn't it more or less exactly in line with what Derwen had told him?

"I'll sit with him," he says. "Maybe he'll wake again and we can talk."

Nesta smiles. "I'm sure he would like that. I will leave you be," she adds, picking up a basket and satchel near the tent's entry. "There are certain herbs I need for his healing, and he has already nearly depleted my stores."

"Of course."

"Be well, Gwaine," she says, and smiles at him in a way that reminds him too much of his poor mother.

"Good luck," he replies, and then she is gone.

* * *

 

Gwaine is bored, whittling a stick into nothing and making a mess of shavings all over the tent floor, when Merlin stirs.

"Hey there," he says, as the other man finally opens his eyes. He seems to take a minute to focus, still groggy and weak. Well, he did just nearly die of fever.

"Gwaine?"

"Hullo, Merlin," he says with a smile. It's damn good to see him awake. "How are you feeling?"

"Been better," Merlin admits. "Thirsty."

"Now that, I can help you with," says Gwaine. He dips a ladle into the bucket by the bed; it's full of cool, clear water, which they've been using to bathe Merlin, and to coax down his throat when they could. "Trust your friend Gwaine to know the best places to get a drink, yeah?"

Merlin smiles tiredly. His hand shakes as he reaches for the ladle, and he can't seem to raise his head, so Gwaine supports him and holds his hand steady while the other man drinks. Just the effort to do that seems to wear Merlin out, though, and Gwaine can't help but worry.

Merlin, for his part, is at least aware enough to catch the expression on Gwaine's face. "How long was I out?" he said. "The druid woman didn't say."

"Ah. Well, her name is Nesta, she's the healer for this tribe, and you've been fighting a bad fever for a few days now. It finally broke last night."

"Ah," says Merlin. There's a little pause, then he asks, "I take it I'm going to live, then?"

 _For longer than you think, my friend_ , thinks Gwaine, but all he says is, "Aye, looks like."

Merlin's face falls, and he looks away. "Pity." The word stabs at Gwaine, and he can't help the little noise he makes, back in his throat. The other man glances back at him, and shrugs. "Arthur meant for me to die. And I can't—I don't know how to be without him. I can't go back to Camelot, can I?"

"Merlin, what happened was an accident. He didn't know you were there—"

"He knew. He looked me in the eyes…" Merlin looks away, tears welling up. He makes a pathetic sight, half-dead from fever and infection, his face full of despair.

"He didn't _know_ , Merlin," says Gwaine, a little desperately himself. "He saw gold eyes and he reacted. Once he realized what he'd done, he was horrified."

"He stepped away from me," says Merlin, and, well, Gwaine can't dispute that. "I reached out to him, and he was so disgusted he stepped away rather than let me even touch him."

Gwaine sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not so sure it was disgust," he tries, but Merlin only shakes his head. "Look, I'm the last man to try and defend the Princess, you know that, but… you didn't see his face. He looked about like he'd been stabbed himself."

For a second, Gwaine almost thinks he's gotten through to Merlin, but then the other man just looks away. "It doesn't matter anymore," he says, eyes slipping closed. A single tear spills out onto his cheek, but Merlin seems too exhausted even to lift his hand to wipe it away. "He doesn't want me anymore. I can never go back to Camelot."

And Gwaine may have spent the afternoon thinking about that very thing, but he's still not quite sure what to say in response.

* * *

 

Arthur spends the next several days alone, any time his schedule permits it. He trains and attends council, and visits with his father, but it's hard to focus on much that the other men have to say. It's easier to spend the time alone in his rooms, thinking about how he could have done things differently, how he could have kept from possibly killing his best friend.

On the field, he can see the knights from the keep of the ancient kings—Lancelot, Percival, Elyan—watching him carefully and exchanging significant looks with one another, but none of them approach him. He's grateful that they're following his command; he is in no way ready to talk about what happened. Lucan, Bors, and Ector seem to have put the entire matter behind them; a sorcerer was abandoned to die in the woods, and their prince is acting more or less normally, so what do they have to worry about?

Gwen, on the other hand, keeps giving Arthur _looks_ in the corridors whenever they happen to cross paths, and they cross paths often enough that he suspects she is engineering their meetings. He can't talk to her, either. He doesn't at all blame her for slapping him when he first broke the news to her and Gaius, but she's likely to ask him how he's _feeling_ and Arthur doesn't _do_ feelings. Or at least, he didn't, until Merlin started forcing him to talk about them.

He sighs, and scrubs his hands over his face. Everything in his life comes back to Merlin, it seems. How could the man have wormed his way so far into Arthur's life in such a short span of time?

Well, that's simple: Arthur let him.

* * *

 

After a few lonely days and nights in his rooms, without Merlin's magic following him around, Arthur finally braces himself and goes to visit Gaius. It is late, and the palace is quiet. There is no one to see the prince taking the route to the physician's tower, and no one to see him knock on the elderly man's door.

"Sire? Is something the matter?"

Arthur shakes his head and steps inside. "I hope I didn't wake you," he says, but Gaius waves that off with a careless gesture.

"Not at all," he replies. "I often take advantage of the quiet hours to update my medical books or prepare potions that I use often, that sort of thing. You're not disturbing me in the least."

"I'm glad to hear it."

He looks around the room, taking in the various sights and smells, remembering his childhood, before Gaius speaks again. "I would, however, like to know what prompted a visit, if you're not feeling ill, sire."

Arthur smiles, a little apologetically. "Merlin's magic is gone," he says. "Either he's," he clears his throat rather than say it, "or he's recovering and his magic won't reach this far anymore."

"I see," says Gaius, but the look on his face suggests he still doesn't know why Arthur is there. Which is fair, since Arthur's not completely sure himself.

"I want…" He stops, pressing his lips together. "I think I know how he could keep this from me," he says finally. "Or at least, I know _why_. But… you've implied that he's protected me with his magic, and even in the past few days it's followed me around like a lost puppy. I want to know how he's served me, with his… with his sorcery. Or even just where and when."

Gaius takes a breath, and then a seat at his table, inviting Arthur to do the same. "Much of what he's done, I would say is his story to tell," he says. "However, with the possibility that he is gone—or if he yet lives, may not return to Camelot anytime soon—I suppose it falls to me to tell you what I can recall." Gaius looks conflicted, to Arthur's eye; he supposes that having spent years protecting Merlin's secrets might make it difficult for the other man to suddenly spill all those secrets now.

"I want to understand, Gaius," he says quietly.

That seems to be the prompt that the old physician needs, because he smiles at Arthur in a way that almost looks proud. "There is wisdom in seeking to understand, rather than merely seeking to conquer," he says. "It is reassuring to know that Camelot will pass into the hands of a wise young man such as yourself."

Arthur huffs a little laugh. "I'm not sure I'm all that wise," he says.

"But at least you do not assume that you already know all that you need to."

As if Merlin would ever have let him get away with that. "I suppose not."

Gaius gets up from the table long enough to pull the kettle off the fire and pour two mugs of tea. Then he sits back down and begins his tale.

* * *

 

He only stops when he catches Arthur covering a yawn. "I apologize, sire; I'm accustomed to staying up late with my patients or with my work. I am afraid I hadn't realized the hour."

Arthur shakes his head, then rubs at his eyes. "It's no trouble. Is this everything Merlin has done?" He doesn't think it is; Gaius is attempting to tell the tale in chronological order, and has not yet caught up to the present day.

"No, sire. And I daresay there are things he did for you that he didn't reveal even to me, because he knew I would have scolded him for his recklessness. That boy had no sense of self-preservation where you are concerned, my lord, if I may say so. He took his duty to protect you quite seriously."

"And is that all it is?" Arthur asks. "Is that the only thing that kept him near me? Duty?"

Gaius looks at him as if he's asked a particularly stupid question. "Of course not. I won't deny that he didn't get along with you very well when you first met—"

"The feeling was mutual," Arthur says with a laugh.

"Indeed, sire. But I daresay the two of you grew on one another. I know that there is a difference between your stations that Merlin rather ignored, but that only meant that he came to view your connection as one of friendship. And I know he valued that friendship. If he lives, I'm sure he still does."

Arthur's heart had begun to feel warmed by Gaius's words, but at the reminder, his face falls. " _If_ he still lives," he says glumly, and Gaius nods.

"You mustn't lose faith, my lord. If there were any way for Sir Gwaine to help Merlin, he would have done it. And if they did manage to find the druids, then I am sure that _they_ would do all that they can for him."

"Because there are prophecies about him," Arthur recalls. That little tidbit was one of the first things that Gaius had shared.

"Indeed, sire. For my part, I will not lose hope until I see proof that he is truly gone."


	10. Chapter 10

Over the next several days, spread carefully so as not to arouse suspicion, Arthur visits Gaius and hears the story of all that Merlin has done for him and for Camelot. The physician holds nothing back, and Arthur learns things which leave him awed, amused, frightened, and occasionally angry.

"He released the dragon _himself_. All those deaths are on his hands! And he poisoned Morgana?" Arthur is pacing rather than sitting at the table, and it's all he can do not to fling things from the shelves in a temper. He whirls to glare at Gaius, who sits there placidly as if nothing is wrong. "You're supposed to be convincing me that sorcery isn't evil. Why would you tell me this?"

Gaius only sighs. "Merlin and I argued more than once about what to tell you, sire, or even whether we should. And with the benefit of hindsight, I think that Merlin was right; it was the keeping of secrets from you and Lady Morgana that led to so much disaster and heartbreak for us all. Just to take the most obvious example, if you had known from the beginning that Merlin had magic, he would not be with the druids now, recovering from what was done to him."

"From what _I_ did to him, Gaius," says Arthur tiredly, his temper fading at the reminder. He crosses the room and retakes his seat at the work table. "It does no good to skirt the issue and pretend that it's something that just _happened_. I stabbed him. I saw a sorcerer, and I meant to kill him before he could kill me. And anyway…" He sighs, and rubs his eyes. "If I had known of his magic from the very beginning, there is every chance I would have failed to stand up to my father, would have caved to his beliefs like a coward, and Merlin would have been executed long before now."

"As you say, sire," Gaius replies; he is a master of the noncommittal response, Arthur has noticed in the past days. It's frustrating, but given that Gaius has had to deal with Uther for the entirety of the king's maniacal war on magic, it's also likely kept him alive.

"You disagree."

Gaius leans back and tucks his hands into his sleeves. "I believe only that you do not give yourself enough credit, sire. Merlin has wanted to reveal his magic to you since the battle in Ealdor; he must have had faith that you would not seek to do him harm, even if you do not have the same faith."

Arthur looks away, glancing at the door to Merlin's room. "I suppose we'll never know, now."

Gaius follows his gaze, and Arthur sees him frown thoughtfully. "Earlier, sire, when you first came to see me, you said that you wanted to understand. Do I take you correctly, to mean that you wished only to know what Merlin had done for you?"

Now Arthur frowns, not entirely sure what the other man may be getting at. "That's part of it, I suppose," he says slowly. "I also wanted to know whether Ector or my father were right—whether or not Merlin could be trusted. He was by my side for years; who's to say what secrets he's learned, what he's done behind my back? And according to you, he's done rather a great deal. What if he'd been working for someone like Morgause? Camelot could have been in danger."

"And do you still believe that?" asks Gaius.

Arthur sighs. "I'm not sure I ever did. Unless he's a better actor than any player I've ever heard of, he couldn't be such a gormless fool and still be attempting to sell this kingdom's secrets to the highest bidder." He shakes his head, and continues, "He's… he's _Merlin_. I can't imagine him having malicious motives for anything he's done. Even the terrible things, like poisoning Morgana and releasing the dragon."

Gaius nods, seemingly satisfied. "I am glad that you are able to understand that, sire. You already question whether magic may be wholly evil, as Uther has taught you."

"I know that it can't be. The druids are a peaceful people. Merlin has saved my life. The only thing I don't know is whether they are the exception to the rule, or if they are proof that magic itself is a neutral force in the world."

Gaius nods again, thoughtfully. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, until Arthur calls his name. "Apologies, sire. I was only wondering: Is there more that you wish to know, now that I've told you everything I can remember?"

Arthur rubs his forehead in thought, then says, "There is so much I don't know about magic in general. What it can do, why a person would study it. How a person could be born with it, as you say Merlin claims. We won't be able to fight Morgana's schemes if we don't understand just what we're up against."

The older man studies Arthur's face before appearing to reach a decision. "I think I may be able to assist you with that," he says, standing stiffly and shuffling over to Merlin's room. "Come. I have something to show you."

Arthur follows, intrigued, and Gaius opens the door to the tiny room. Before Merlin came, he thinks the physician used it as a storage closet, or perhaps a patient recovery room; there's just enough room in here for Merlin's cot and a small cupboard. Gaius, however, braces himself against the bed and lowers himself to one knee, reaching underneath and patting around on the floor.

"Gaius?"

"One moment, sire… ah. Here it is."

Arthur ducks down to see better, and watches as Gaius pries up a loose floorboard, revealing a hidden niche underneath. He pulls a large, antique-looking book out of the niche, then replaces the board. Arthur has the distinct impression that whatever Gaius is about to show him could get them both killed if found out.

"Uther burned most of the texts on magic at the beginning of his Purge, as I'm sure you're aware. However, there were a few books that survived, and this one… this one I gifted to Merlin, to help him learn control over his powers."

Arthur was right. "This is a book of spells." Just holding it would be enough to see a man executed for the possession of magical paraphernalia. Charms, poultices, spells… Arthur isn't quite sure he can believe the audacity of either Merlin or Gaius, to have kept something like this within the palace itself. "Are both of you mad?"

Gaius actually chuckles, which does nothing to reassure Arthur of his sanity. "I can see why you would think that. But consider, sire; I have lived a long time, and survived Uther's Purge myself all this time. I do know how to be careful, and discreet."

"Unlike Merlin." The amount of trust Gaius has had to have in his apprentice is staggering to think about. "One false step and you'd both be executed."

"Which is why I preached caution to Merlin, at every opportunity. And it is also why he never told you of his powers, sire, despite how much he hated keeping the secret from you."

A secret that, for better or worse, is now out in the open. The knights know; Arthur is not so naive as to think that none of the men from that patrol would have let slip what happened to Gwaine, or to Arthur's wayward manservant. Perhaps especially to his manservant. Yes, he ordered them not to, but rumors will fly, and there are too many people involved to keep the story quiet forever. "And all your efforts were for nothing," he says quietly, releasing a long, slow sigh.

"Not for _nothing_ , I daresay, sire," says Gaius. "Merlin survived long enough to save your life, after all."

"More than once, from your stories."

"Just so."

 _And I have repaid him with this_ , Arthur thinks, but does not say. Some of what he is feeling must show on his face, however, because Gaius's expression turns soft and sympathetic.

"If he yet lives, sire, he will find his way back to you. Mark my words."

Arthur can only shake his head. "I don't see how," he says, but Gaius simply smiles in return.

"He may not be able to return _quickly_ , since Uther still reigns, but someday…"

Someday, Arthur will be king. Someday, the laws that persecute Merlin's kind will meet their end.

"Yes," he says. "Someday."

"In the meantime, sire… in the interests of discretion, I would ask that this book not leave this room. But you are welcome to read it, if you wish. There may be much for you to learn from these pages, and it is possible that they will be able to answer your questions where I cannot."

* * *

 

Merlin improves only slowly over the next several days. Oh, his wound heals up fine; now that he's past the infection and his magic isn't fighting Nesta's, every time she speaks a spell he adds to it, and Gwaine can visibly watch the wound grow smaller and pinker and more like the scar that Merlin will eventually carry with him. He's still tender, and weak from his ordeal, but he'll live, there's no doubt about it.

It's just that Gwaine thinks Merlin might have been happier to have been told he wasn't going to make it. He doesn't smile anymore, and rarely speaks. Nesta has to coax him to eat and even when he does, he barely picks at his meal. Gwaine thinks that it's only his upbringing as a hungry peasant that keeps Merlin from turning the food away entirely.

"Come on, then," Gwaine says to him one day, as he sits poking apathetically at his bowl of stew. It's good stew, with fresh rabbit that Gwaine saw to himself. "Up you get."

Merlin blinks, his thoughts obviously having been miles away until Gwaine spoke. "What?"

"I said, get up," Gwaine says. "If you're not going to eat, then you can exercise. Or at least bathe. You're no longer in a shape where you need me to do it for you."

"I don't know about that," says Merlin. "I can barely stand up for more than a minute at a time."

"Hence, exercise," says Gwaine cheerily. "And after that, I'll take you down to the creek and throw a bucket of water over you. I don't mean you to take this the wrong way, my friend, but you reek."

It's actually true; Merlin's fever may have broken, but his skin is still thick with fever sweat and the smell of illness. His hair is lank with grease and his beard has started to come in. He looks a bit like a half-naked madman, rather than the kindhearted boy Gwaine first met.

Merlin huffs, the sound too tired and sad to really call a laugh, but he sets his bowl aside and pushes himself up on shaky arms. "Nesta won't tell me what happened to my clothes," he complains.

"Well, your shirt was a little bit ruined," allows Gwaine, "but I've got your trousers and boots and things with my armor, in Arawn's tent. Want me to fetch them? They could probably do with a wash, too."

Merlin sighs in a way that indicates to Gwaine that he doesn't care one way or another. "I don't think I should go barefoot," he says, "but I don't think I'm ready to put my boots on and take them off by myself, either."

"Wear these," says Nesta, ducking under the awning and stepping inside. She is holding a pair of braided straw sandals, like many of the other druids use. "You can slip in and out of them without bending over."

Merlin nods his thanks, but doesn't move. Nesta watches him patiently, and as Gwaine waits, his face turns a little red. "Could you… turn around, maybe?" Merlin asks finally.

Nesta smiles, but very generously doesn't roll her eyes at Merlin's shyness. She merely drops the sandals at his feet and then steps back outside again.

"You know she's seen everything you've got, right, while she was taking care of you?"

"That was when I didn't have a choice," grumbles Merlin.

"Fair enough."

With Gwaine's help, Merlin swings his legs over the side of the bed. He's done this much to get to the camp's latrine each day, even if he has needed to be carried. Today, though, Gwaine's going to make him walk.

Merlin needs to get his strength back, the sooner the better. He may be an immortal sorcerer and the embodiment of all the druids' collective hopes, but that doesn't mean he's safe here if Camelot decides to go on another raid to cleanse the land of magic, or some shite like that. If he can't run, he won't survive, and the state of mind he's been in since waking, Gwaine's not at all sure that Merlin wouldn't just… choose not to run.

Gwaine won't allow that, not on his watch. He helps Merlin slip his feet into the sandals, and then reaches for the robe Arawn loaned to them for Merlin to wear, and gets the other man's arms through the sleeves. He belts it only loosely, still mindful of Merlin's injury even though it's mostly healed now.

"Why are you helping me?" Merlin asks, not looking up from his new shoes.

"Because you're my friend, Merlin," says Gwaine. "And because I have no doubt that you'd do the same for me."

Merlin sighs and shakes his head, but allows himself to slide off the bed and lean heavily on Gwaine. "I would," he admits. Then he says, "But that doesn't mean that you should."

"Well, I hate to tell you this, _my friend_ , but you don't get a say in what I should and shouldn't do." He smiles over at Merlin, catching his eye, hoping for a response, but the other man only sighs again and begins his shuffle toward the latrines.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter than usual, with no Arthur in it, but there was nothing I could really add here that seemed to work with the overall feel of Merlin's part. I hope it works for people anyway.

The days pass, but Gwaine grows only more worried. Merlin leans heavily on him whenever they walk, and tires easily. He eats little, and doesn't really speak to anyone—or at least, not that Gwaine knows of. It's possible, he supposes, that the camp is a hive of noise and gossip for those with the magic and the ability to hear one another's thoughts. Still, even if it is, Gwaine doesn't think Merlin is including himself in the hubbub. The druids watch them whenever they leave Nesta's tent, hobbling short distances to the latrine, to the nearby brook, or to a fallen log where Merlin can sit and take in the sun. The kids stare and stare, until the adults chase them off, but Gwaine has caught them giving Merlin worried looks, too.

Whether they're worried about _him,_ or only about their vaunted figure of prophecy, is anyone's guess. Gwaine hasn't really seen Derwen around much since their conversation, but he supposes she wouldn't have much reason to seek him out for conversation, being busy with the running of the tribe's affairs or whatever it is she does with her time.

Merlin sleeps poorly, according to Nesta. He wakes in the night, sometimes calling Arthur's name, but won't speak to her about what he dreams. Gwaine can make some pretty good guesses; having one's best friend shove the knife home would make for nightmare fodder for almost anyone, he reckons.

"How you feeling, Merlin?" he asks one morning, ducking under the tent flap as usual. Nesta gives him a grim look, but doesn't say anything. Neither does Merlin. "Merlin?"

"It doesn't matter," he says. "I don't know why you're still here."

"Because you need to piss and you still need to lean on someone to make the fifteen steps to the latrine," Gwaine says with blunt good cheer, hoping for a reaction.

Merlin only scowls and looks away.

With a sigh, Gwaine goes on. "We've been over this. I'm your friend. I'm not leaving."

"You should."

"Why?"

Merlin doesn't answer, only begins to struggle upright, clutching at his side when he moves a little too fast. He's wearing a sleep shirt at night, now that the wound is closed, and Gwaine helps him out of it and into his robe and sandals.

The walk to the latrine, Merlin's hand heavy on Gwaine's shoulder, and he turns his back while the younger man manages his business. Instead of taking him back to the tent afterward, though, Gwaine steers him toward the fallen log where they take the sun, a little ways from camp. Merlin looks at him sidelong, but doesn't say anything, not even when they've reached the log and Gwaine has got him settled in. He pulls a stick from the clutter nearby, and a knife from his boot, and starts to whittle. He's not actually any kind of carver, but it gives his hands something to do.

"Why?" he finally asks again, into the silence, and Merlin sighs.

"There's nothing for you here," he says.

"There's you."

"I'm nobody."

At that, Gwaine's eyebrow quirks up a little. "Not what I've heard."

Merlin presses his lips together. "They've told you, then."

"Some, aye." Probably more than Merlin himself knows, but now isn't the time to go into that. "You're their Emrys," he says instead, but Merlin only shakes his head and looks at his hands, clasped loosely in his lap.

"I'm not so sure I am, anymore."

 _Keep him talking_ , Gwaine thinks. Whatever is going on in Merlin's head has left another wound that needs lancing, and talking just might be the way to do it. Gwaine usually does this sort of thing better over a pint of ale, but he still has the skill. "What do you mean?"

"I have magic, sure." Merlin hesitates, scrubs at his nose with the back of his hand. "And I think Arthur will be a great king someday. But he doesn't need me to get there. He doesn't _want_ me anymore, if he ever did. Someone else must be Emrys, not me."

"You think someone else with magic exists, who will want to guide him as he rules?" _And not have nefarious motives?_ he adds mentally.

Merlin takes a deep breath and lets it out in a heavy sigh. "I already said. He doesn't want me there. And without him, I'm… I'm nothing. Just a magical freak; a monster. And I've lost too much, thinking _I_ was Emrys, trying to protect him and giving up everything that wasn't _him_. The real Emrys probably wouldn't have had to pay that price. Destiny would favor them. Me, though… no. I'm done."

Gwaine nods. Merlin sounds only weary, exhausted to the depths of his soul, and Gwaine has to wonder just what the younger man has been through to reach this point. Other than being stabbed, which would be enough on its own, really.

"What have you lost?" he asks. Merlin turns to glare at him, and Gwaine just shrugs. "I'm only trying to understand."

Merlin picks at the sleeve of his robe for a while, and Gwaine lets him be. One thing he's learned is that most men will eventually fill the silence rather than let things get awkward.

"The first person I lost was Will," he says. "Friend of mine from Ealdor. We grew up together. He was the first person other than Mum to know about me. Then there was F-Freya. She… maybe nothing would have come of it, but I thought at the time that we were in love. She was cursed to turn into a beast at night. Arthur killed her."

 _God, Merlin_ _…_ "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm responsible for Morgana turning to evil," says Merlin.

"You can't know that. She made her own choices."

But Merlin is shaking his head, still not looking at Gwaine. "I didn't help her when her magic manifested. And then later, when Morgause made her the focus of a spell, the only way to break the spell was to kill the focus. So I offered her a drink from my water skin, laced with hemlock. Held her as she choked. I handed her over to Morgause's tender care, literally."

He falls silent, but Gwaine has the feeling he's not done. Merlin hasn't relaxed, still won't meet Gwaine's eyes, and his hands are clenched into fists, braced against the fallen log.

"Who else," Gwaine asks gently, knowing there has to be someone.

"The dragonlord. Balinor. I never knew he was my father until the day we set out to find him. And then he died protecting me." Now a tear breaks free from Merlin's lashes and drips onto his lap. "I knew him for only a day and a night. He never even knew he'd had a son." He stops and sniffs wetly. "He was my _father_."

"Ah, Merlin," Gwaine says, wrapping an arm around the other man's shoulders and pulling him close. He's careful of Merlin's injury, isn't rough with him, but his friend is still shaking with the effort of not weeping in his arms like a babe.

"It was my fault we had to look for him in the first place," says Merlin, his voice thick. "The dragon… he was imprisoned beneath the castle, and he gave me advice for how I could help Arthur, but the price was that I had to free him. And I did, and then he…"

Gwaine winces, having heard many tales indeed about what the dragon had done to Camelot. "You couldn't have known."

"I should have. Emrys would have. And n-now Arthur," he starts, and that must be the last straw; Merlin says nothing more, only buries his face in his hands, and sobs silently.

* * *

 

When the storm passes, as all such things must, Merlin looks exhausted again. He leans limply against Gwaine, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "I've lost everything," he says. "People I cared about have died. I've betrayed friends. I've killed for Arthur, with my magic, and it made me feel _unclean_. And now I learn it was all for nothing. Camelot is lost to me as well. I will never see Gaius again, or Gwen, or Lancelot… there's nothing left for me," he says, pulling away from Gwaine and pressing a hand to his wound. "That's why I don't think you should stay."

"What, you think I'm going to disappear now that you've already lost everything else?" Gwaine has to fight to keep his tone even, and not put Merlin on the defensive.

"You're not meant to be here," Merlin reasons. "The life of a druid? You'll go mad inside of a month. You're a warrior. You're meant to be out there protecting people. Me, though… maybe hidden away where I can't hurt anyone else is the safest place for me."

He means _where no one else can hurt me_ , Gwaine is sure, but now doesn't seem to be the right time to say it. "If you want to be a druid, I'm sure I can't stop you," he says instead. "Might be a good place to learn more about your magic. Find a good teacher. Get some practice in. I'm sure you couldn't do much of that in Camelot."

"I don't care if I never use my magic again," says Merlin, and Gwaine feels his eyes go wide. From what Derwen said, magic comes as easily to Merlin as breathing. For him not to want to use it, would be akin to Gwaine giving up not only the sword but his sword arm, too, just letting it atrophy and fall off his body, a dead thing.

"You can't mean that," he says.

"Don't tell me what I mean and don't mean."

"All right, all right," Gwaine backtracks, "but surely after some time has passed. Give yourself time to grieve, aye? You're right, you've been through hell and back, more than once, all for Arthur. And maybe he doesn't deserve it. A man needs time to mourn for what he's lost. Otherwise he ends up like me."

"Like you?" Now Merlin looks up, for the first time. "I don't understand."

It's Gwaine's turn to sigh, now. "I was angry at everyone and everything when Caerleon left us destitute. I ran away from home, rather than help my mother and sister survive, because I couldn't bear to be reminded of what had been taken from us. I didn't trust nobles, nor anyone else, really. You were my first real friend in years, Merlin," he says, gripping the other man's shoulder and giving it a little shake. "I had no home, no purpose, till you came along and convinced me to go on that quest with you and Arthur. So, no. Don't be like me."

Merlin looks down, taking that in, but eventually nods his head. "I still don't think this is the life for you," he says. "Maybe you could go back to Camelot, but come visit once in a while."

Gwaine isn't at all sure he can go back to Camelot, after flinging his cloak to the ground at Arthur's feet, with witnesses, but Merlin doesn't seem to remember that and Gwaine doesn't have the heart to tell him. "I thought druids moved around all the time," he says. "I'd visit if I could find you, but… really, it's better I stay with you, so I know where you are."

"That… doesn't make much sense," says Merlin, wrinkling his nose. It's still not a laugh, but it's almost a smile, and Gwaine will take it.

"Well, then, clearly I need to stay with you so that you can teach me some sense, aye?"

Merlin shakes his head, but one corner of his mouth finally, finally curls up, just a little, and Gwaine decides to count it as a win.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one, folks. I've been traveling, and then I just could not figure out how Arthur's POV was supposed to go. I was stuck for days, but hopefully you like what I've managed to come up with. Thanks for reading, as always.

Arthur is not known as a bookish sort, certainly, but he's had his share of tutors—the best Camelot could afford, in fact—and he's always taken his studies as seriously as he could. He may have been a rambunctious child, but Uther still would never have allowed him to give anything less than full devotion to his lessons.

And magic is a lesson Arthur finds he very much wants to learn, now, after everything that has happened and everything that Gaius has told him. His mornings are spent in council, the older men giving more and more weight to their prince's words as it becomes clear that Uther has no more interest in ruling his own kingdom, and his afternoons are usually given over to training the knights as a means to lessen the feel of the burden on his shoulders. Many of Arthur's evenings, however, are spent in Merlin's tiny closet of a room, reading by lamplight until Gaius comes to tell him that it is time for him to go to bed.

He reads Merlin's book (a book of _sorcery_ , his mind still occasionally exclaims, boggled) cover to cover, finding spells and lessons, much of it written in a language he cannot read. What he can read, however, is fascinating. Perhaps more fascinating than it should be; perhaps this is what pulls innocent people into corruption, the magic itself too tempting to ignore.

 _Magic is nothing more or less than the energy of life itself,_ he reads. _Sorcery, therefore, is nothing more than the manipulation of these energies to accomplish ends that could not be achieved by other means._ Arthur is not sure that this is reassuring, but perhaps it explains the fascination; it isn't corruption pulling him into temptation, it's life pulling him into living. He has a feeling Merlin would explain it in exactly those terms.

And magic is astonishingly versatile, Arthur finds; there is so much more to it than mere curses and throwing men into the trees. There are spells to animate objects—that one is marked with Merlin's handwriting, and Arthur remembers the snakes on a treacherous knight's shield, years ago—and spells to move them from place to place. Spells to make fire and spells to douse it; spells that appear to control the weather, with caveats that no single sorcerer can truly control the weather in a very large area, and that such things must be marked by boundaries or they will dissipate. (Merlin's notes in those margins seem confused at the thought; Arthur remembers Gaius telling him of Merlin's immense magical strength, and wonders if he is able to break the sorts of rules that other sorcerers have no choice but to follow.) There are spells that seem to Arthur more like prayers of blessing, offering the protection of the Old Religion to people or animals or crops or houses or objects. He reads of spells to see things, or people, or events that are far away, and wonders if there is anything that would allow communication at such distances. The ability to send messages to the far borders of the kingdom would be priceless, in peace or in war.

Then there are the passages that make him smile and think of Merlin, or ache and think of Merlin. He finds spells to make things clean, annotated with Merlin's handwriting and mentions of "the royal prat's rooms" (Arthur smiles, knowing he's just won his own bet that the lazy sod used magic to do his chores). He finds spells for protection, and instructions for techniques on laying spells of any kind into metal, stone, and wood. Arthur thinks of the dent in his armor, where it stopped a crossbow bolt, and misses Merlin fiercely.

He nearly gets tears in his eyes when he finds a section on healing spells, whose margins are filled with Merlin's notes. Spells to stop bleeding, to close wounds, to pull poison out of a man's body, and more. _Why are these so difficult!_ Merlin has written, more than once. Arthur doesn't want to think about how many times he's been in danger, and how many times Merlin may have tried to save his life with magic. He must have decided it was far better to prevent injury by enchanting Arthur's armor and hoping the prince never noticed, than to risk failing with a healing spell at a crucial moment.

The healing spells come with a gruesome warning. _Just as every medicine may also be a poison in the wrong dosage, so too can these spells be used to harm as well as to heal. A sorcerer with the power to mend a broken bone may just as easily snap it in two. It is no more complex to enchant an herbal cure for greater efficacy than it is to enchant a mild poison to become lethal. Great care must be taken to use these words of power in accordance with the tenets of our faith._

By "faith", Arthur assumes that the long-ago author is referring to the Old Religion, about which he knows nothing, apart from what Morgause taught him about how he was conceived. Balance; a life for a life; the greater the magic, the greater the cost. He wonders what Merlin knows, if anything, about those ancient teachings. Perhaps nothing; perhaps, though, Gwaine has found the druids and Merlin is learning from them while he recovers in their care.

That assumes, of course, that Merlin has survived to learn anything at all.

Arthur cannot wait until his month is up and he can find out.

* * *

 

Gwen finally corners him the next day, between training and dinner. He is a sweaty mess, but she seems not even to notice, stalking up to him with determination in her eyes.

"Guinevere."

"My lord," she says, dropping him a curtsey for form's sake, "do you have a moment?"

And he'd very much like to say _not really_ , but it isn't true and they both know it. He's been avoiding her for days, and they both know that, too.

"What is it?" he asks, although he is pretty sure he can predict her answer.

To his surprise, she hesitates, just a little. "Not here," she says quietly, her eyes darting to the side as a trio of servants pass them, arms full of baskets and bundles and chattering amongst themselves. "If we could converse somewhere privately?"

Arthur nods, knowing he's been caught and that he couldn't have avoided her for much longer, anyway. "Come with me."

The door is open to his chambers, and a parade of servants is filling his bath; when he enters, he catches them eying him and Gwen together, but they are trained better than to say anything aloud. Hopefully there will not be gossip below stairs later, or at least nothing that will damage Gwen's reputation. Servants know everything that goes on in a castle, whether the nobility ever hear about it or not.

"Sit," he says, indicating the table, where afternoon refreshments have been laid out. "Thank you for coming to speak with me." Gwen looks up at him in confusion, but Arthur only glances toward the servants, and after a moment she understands.

"Of course, my lord," she says aloud, and they wait until the bath is full and the servants have taken themselves out. When the door has finally latched behind them, she takes a deep breath. "Have you heard anything about Merlin?" she asks. "There are rumors flying below stairs, that he's been sacked, or killed, or even that he's run away with Sir Gwaine. And I haven't said anything, of course, because I wasn't sure what you would want said. Only, you haven't asked Steward to appoint a replacement for him, and people are wondering… not that you have to replace him, of course! I'm sure you would if you wanted to. Not that you don't want to, I mean, I wouldn't presume to know what you want…"

"Gwen." He holds up a hand and she subsides, blushing. They've kissed once or twice, although nothing more has come of it. Too much has been happening for him to pursue a courtship with her, but the fact remains that she hasn't stammered like that around Arthur in quite some time. "You're still worried about my reaction to our conversation the other day," he guesses.

"Well. I did strike you," she says, lowering her gaze demurely. "And I am sorry for that."

"There's no need to apologize. I deserved it, after all." He deserves so much worse than merely to be slapped, for what he did to Merlin. "I know you and he were close."

Gwen nods, and to his dismay her eyes well up with tears. "It's only… we don't even know if he's alive."

Arthur looks away, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I know." And he's sorry, he truly is. The more he's learned about Merlin, about all the things he's done for Arthur, about his capabilities and power, the worse Arthur feels about how he repaid all that loyalty and devotion—not just when he stabbed Merlin, but in all the years leading up to that moment, the petty bullying and needling he inflicted on the other man just because he could. "But I intend to find out soon. In another two weeks, if not sooner."

"How?"

Arthur clears his throat. "I told my father that Gwaine had volunteered to spy for us in Mercia, to see whether or not the bandits we faced were in fact mercenaries, paid to attack Camelot. I told him that if I didn't hear from Gwaine in a month's time, I would go out and search for him myself."

"But the other knights know what happened," says Gwen. "Won't it cause trouble if you go out after him?"

"It may," Arthur admits with a sigh. "I've forbidden them from speaking about what really happened, but while I'm gone, one or two may decide to defy that command."

"But you'll go anyway, even knowing the risk?"

"I have to," says Arthur. "I can't…" He can't bear not knowing whether his best friend is alive. He can't bear not having the chance to apologize, to see Merlin again, to explain, to hear his friend's own explanations. There's so very much he can't bear that it chokes him some nights: leaves him awake for hours, or else flings him out of nightmares with cold sweat drying on his body. "I can't rest, until I know one way or the other."

"If he _is_ alive, what will you do?" Gwen asks, and Arthur closes his eyes tiredly. He's pondered that same question for too long, now, and come up with no answers that satisfy him.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean?" He opens his eyes again, but Gwen's tone wasn't accusatory, and her expression is open and sympathetic.

Arthur sighs. "The other knights know he's a sorcerer. He cannot safely return to Camelot, not yet. The council is talking of officially naming me regent while Father recovers, but even then I won't have the power to lift the ban on sorcery. Not—not while he lives." And even after Uther dies, Arthur won't be able to justify lifting the ban for only one person; the council would never stand for it. He huffs a little laugh, but there is no humor in it. "I mean that I truly do not know what to do, to bring Merlin back to my side, and that assumes Merlin will even _want_ to return after what I did to him."

"And even that assumes that Merlin has… well, that he's survived," she says softly, and Arthur nods. Unable to speak, he pulls his goblet closer and fills it with chilled wine. He takes a long, deep drink, as Gwen says, "The not knowing has been hard on all of us, Arthur, but I think perhaps it's upsetting you most of all."

"It's my fault he's gone," says Arthur; "of course I'm upset."

"Well, yes, naturally, my lord, I didn't mean to imply otherwise—"

"You didn't."

She lays her hand over his, a comforting touch before she pulls away again. "Everyone knows you were close."

"People like Ector would probably assume that he's enchanted me."

To his surprise, Gwen snickers. "Oh yes, enchanted you to order him to wash your socks! He follows you everywhere, and I know I've seen you _climb him_ like a mounting block to get into your own saddle."

"I haven't done that in years!" And in truth he's a little embarrassed that he ever felt entitled enough to do it at all.

"But that's my point, Arthur," she says with a smile. "Anyone who pays any attention at all will know better than to think he's got you enthralled or some such nonsense. For one, he's too sweet, and for another, it's clear that he's loyal to you, not the other way around."

Arthur just looks at her, wounded, and after a moment her eyes go wide in shocked realization.

"I didn't mean—! I mean, I did, but I meant—I wasn't trying to imply—oh, Arthur, I'm so sorry, I didn't—"

"He follows me as a servant. A rubbish servant, but a servant nonetheless. I do not follow him about as though I were enslaved to his whims."

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I meant. I wasn't trying to imply that you weren't as dedicated to him as he is to you."

"Thank you, Guinevere. I know." He sighs again. "Although if you had been trying to imply that, it would only have been fair. I did…" He has to stop and swallow again, the sour taste back in his mouth despite the sweet wine. "I did stab him, after all."

"I'm sure he knows that you would never have done it had you realized. I'm sure… I'm sure he'll forgive you, sire."

Arthur shrugs his shoulders. "Maybe." In the meantime, he's not at all sure he's ready to forgive himself. "Two more weeks, and then I'll be able to find out."


	13. Chapter 13

It's been not quite three weeks since Arthur stabbed Merlin, and Gwaine has gotten no calmer about it. He thought he would, being distracted by saving Merlin's life and by living among the druids, but Merlin was right: he's only gotten antsier as the days have passed by. There's little to do here that doesn't involve foraging for food, keeping an eye out for soldiers and bandits, and practicing the Old Religion, which for the druids mostly seems to mean living in harmony with the earth. There's nothing to drink, no one has money or even an interest in gambling, there's nothing to fight over or even to fight about… Gwaine hates to admit it, but now that he's not in a battle for Merlin's life, he's half out of his head with boredom.

Almost all he has to think about is what Arthur did, and what Gwaine can do about it. This does nothing to make him feel any calmer.

Nesta has declared Merlin healthy enough to leave her care, and the druids have set them up a tent to share in the middle of camp. They've been made welcome, and Gwaine appreciates it; the kids pop by all the time, bringing flowers or toys they've made, or other tokens for Emrys. The men and women all share their food so that neither Gwaine nor Merlin has to attempt to cook. It's nice, but it's still… there's definitely something missing from Gwaine's life, and he wants it back.

Of course, all of that is for when he doesn't still feel as though he's in a battle for Merlin's life. The other man's depression has only grown deeper; he tends to smile wanly at the kids' offerings, just enough to appease them, and doesn't give much more of a response to the adults. It doesn't appease the adults. Instead of trinkets and flowers, they've offered to teach Merlin their magic, or about more of the prophecy that involves him and Arthur, or about the Old Religion and the ways of the druids in general, and he's politely turned them down every time.

It boggles Gwaine, knowing what (admittedly little) he does about Merlin and magic. If someone came by and wanted to offer to teach him a new knife-fighting technique, or something they'd picked up from some faraway exotic land, Gwaine would jump at the chance. He thinks once upon a time, not even that long ago, Merlin might have, too, but now he's so convinced that he's not their Emrys, that there's no reason for him to have magic, he seems to be trying to reject it in his own person.

Derwen had said that for Emrys, using magic was like a regular person "using" air. He can't help it; it's all around him, and he swims in it like a fish in the sea. Gwaine tries to imagine a fish deciding not to swim, not to take water in through its gills when it's all around like that and inescapable, and all he can think of is that the fish would probably die trying and still fail.

He really hopes Merlin isn't working his way toward a death of his own.

Merlin, though, doesn't even join in when the kids ask him to show him some magic; doesn't create the little lights and sparks that they do, doesn't make flowers bloom by passing a hand over them and whispering in tones of reverent delight. He watches, sometimes, but more often than not he just looks pained and shakes his head, then hobbles back inside their tent to lie down on his pallet. He's taken to leaning on a stout staff instead of Gwaine, now, when he needs to get anywhere, so Gwaine doesn't even have an excuse to follow him and demand that he talk anymore.

"You should go, Gwaine," is all he says, when Gwaine is able to get him to say anything at all. "There's nothing for you here. You won't be happy."

"What about you?" Gwaine always asks, but Merlin never answers.

One day Derwen comes to Gwaine, and asks to speak with him. "It is worse than I feared," she says, walking with him along the berry patches that the druids cultivate. It's the closest thing to farming that they have, in a meadow clearing deep within the woods. There are butterflies flitting everywhere and the heavy, sleepy drone of bees; the sunlight is a balm on everything it touches, and the breeze is gentle. None of that, however, eases the worry on Derwen's face or in her voice, or twisting through Gwaine's gut. "Emrys and the Once and Future King are as two halves of a coin. A half cannot be complete alone. If Emrys forsakes his destiny, then the High King will never attain his throne, and the Golden Age of Albion will never come to be."

"And d'you care for Merlin in all of that, or only in how useful he and Arthur can be to the druids?" asks Gwaine, the worry making him bitter. He's damn tired of hearing about "Emrys" when _Merlin_ is in such a state, wasting himself away to nothing and looking like a ghost. It's as if he's already died and his body just hasn't realized it yet, and the thought makes Gwaine want to go and kill whatever is attacking Merlin this way. Only he can't, because the enemies are either all in Merlin's own head, or they're Arthur.

The lady looks up at him sharply, and he wonders what an angry druid could do to the likes of him; after a moment, though, she sighs and shakes her head. "You are right to remind us of his humanity," she says. "He is still so young for one with such a great destiny."

"And whose idea was it to claim that this destiny belonged to Merlin and not someone else?" Gwaine asks. That's what Merlin is convinced of, after all; seems only fair to address the question.

"This destiny, and Emrys's existence, have been written since ancient times," says Derwen. "Seers from among the druids and elsewhere have foretold it; it is written in the very stars themselves. We knew, by the way the magic of the world _rippled_ , when Emrys took his first breath, even if we did not know what he would look like or where he would be from."

"Aye, well, so far this supposed great destiny has only seemed to serve to take things from him and give him nothing in return. To hear him tell it, he's been ripped away from everything he's ever known or cared about. He thinks the real Emrys would have been helped along by fate, rather than getting beaten about the head by it." Gwaine sighs, and plucks a berry from one of the thorned canes. "Whether he's your Emrys or not, Merlin's lost, right now. Gone somewhere, or headed somewhere anyway, where I don't know that I can follow. You've said a lot about Strength and Magic and Courage, and I've done my best, but he's walking away from me and I don't know how to stay by his side."

"Perhaps he needs someone else at his side, now," says Derwen. And that stings, but it's also no more than what Gwaine has been thinking himself. "The two halves need one another."

"I'm not sure his other half wants anything to do with him," says Gwaine. "Merlin certainly doesn't think so."

"Merlin is not always right," says Derwen with a raised eyebrow. She tempers it in the next instant with a sad smile. "I know what such an affliction of the heart can do to a person's ability to see reason. He is not able to think clearly right now, and so you must do it for him."

"I can't take him back to Camelot," says Gwaine, knowing that Arthur is what Merlin needs.

Derwen's smile only grows wider, a bit more approving, as she rests her hand on Gwaine's arm. "If you cannot bring Emrys to his other half," she says, "then perhaps you should bring his other half to Emrys."

It's no more than Gwaine has been considering, but even so, he has to ask: "And the druids would sit still long enough to allow the son of Uther Pendragon to find them?"

He expects Derwen to look troubled, but she only takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "For Emrys, we would do much. Risk much. This seems a small thing to ask of us, when his destiny and the future of Albion is at stake."

* * *

 

Gwaine starts packing almost immediately when he returns to their tent, working around Merlin where he lies on his pallet. The other man is turned away at first, facing the wall as he has been for days, but when Gwaine's puttering doesn't cease, he rolls over.

"What are you doing?" The tone of Merlin's voice is so dull and lifeless, and it's still the most curious about anything he's been in days.

"I've been given a bit of a quest," says Gwaine. Merlin looks devastated for a moment, too long, before his face settles into an expression of resignation.

"I did tell you you'd be happier elsewhere," he says, half to himself, as he sits up.

Gwaine shakes his head. "I'm not leaving you here alone, Merlin. Or at least, not for very long. I hope to be back in a week."

Merlin doesn't say anything. The old Merlin would have offered to help, or found a way to sneak along on the journey, or would even have recruited Gwaine himself to join in someone else's quest; this Merlin, however, this sad and silent and wing-clipped falcon, seems genuinely to believe that he has nothing to offer. He barely even seems relieved to know that he's not losing Gwaine, too, after losing everything else. He watches Gwaine pack, but won't meet Gwaine's eyes whenever he looks over at Merlin himself.

"I'd bring you along if it were safe," says Gwaine after a moment, partly because it's true and partly just to see if Merlin bristles. As if he'd ever shied away from danger before. But it seems Merlin's depression is not so easily thrown off as all that, because he doesn't really protest. "Actually, I'd bring you along even if it weren't safe, if I could," Gwaine admits. "But you still need to finish recovering."

"I understand," says Merlin, looking away.

 _Do you?_ Gwaine thinks. Given how unhappy Merlin looks about Gwaine's leaving, Gwaine has his doubts. Out loud, he says, "Glad to hear it. So you just stay put for the next few days and concentrate on getting better, aye? Do what Nesta tells you to do, eat your vegetables, get a little exercise each day. Get your strength back." He stuffs a spare shirt into his bag and glances up. "Maybe practice your magic."

Merlin scowls. "There's no point to my magic," he says, lying back down and pulling the blanket up. He looks like he wants to roll over and end the conversation then and there.

"The kids like it," Gwaine replies.

"The kids haven't learned how things really work yet."

Damn, but he's going cynical and bitter in addition to this depression. "Nah," says Gwaine, holding one of his knives up to the light to see if it needs sharpening, "you're probably right. And anyway, the druids can protect themselves, if it comes down to it. They've been doing that since before we got here, right?"

Merlin doesn't answer, but out of the corner of Gwaine's eye, he at least looks thoughtful rather than like he's given up all hope. Or maybe he only looks chastised, Gwaine isn't too sure.

"Anyway, like I said. Won't be gone long. Just a quick jaunt out into the world and back again. Anything you'd like me to bring back, if I find it?" For himself, Gwaine is thinking a bottle or two of good wine would not go amiss, and he's looking forward to spending Mercian coin to sleep in a tavern bed rather than out in the open for a night.

Merlin only shrugs. "No," he mutters. "There's nothing you can bring me."

There's Arthur, but Gwaine's already decided to keep the purpose of his "quest" a secret. If Merlin doesn't have the gumption to ask, Gwaine has no reason to tell him, plus he's got the suspicion that if he knew the prince was coming, Merlin would balk and try to flee before Gwaine could return to the camp with Arthur in tow. That would rather put a damper on his plans to get the two of them in the same place and knock their heads together until they see sense.

Well. Perhaps actually knocking their heads together is not the best idea he's had, but he's never been much of a planner anyway since leaving Caerleon behind. A nobleman's son learns strategy, but there's not much call for such things when one is no more than a traveling mercenary. Once Gwaine's back in the city and gets a good look at Arthur, he will have exhausted the full depth of his plan, and from there, he'll play the rest by ear and see what happens.

He's still looking forward to tossing a glove at the princess's feet, though, and maybe landing one punch, just one, on Arthur's jaw for what he's done to the man Gwaine claims as his closest friend.

"Well," he says once he's done. Merlin is watching him with tired eyes. "I think that's everything. I even remembered to pack soap—didn't I?"

He knows he did, but he's waiting for Merlin to answer, trying to pull the other man into conversation. Instead, Merlin only sighs. "Be safe, I guess. Don't get killed."

"That's not in the plan," says Gwaine. "And you, take care of yourself, aye? I'll be back in a week, and you can bet I'll hear about it if Nesta thinks you're getting worse."

The look on Merlin's face suggests that he doesn't know why Nesta or anyone else would care, but he still nods. "Okay."

"Okay," says Gwaine in return. He takes one last look around the tent, and can find nothing that should be in his pack instead. "Okay." With two long strides, he's over to Merlin's pallet, and smacking a big wet kiss on his forehead, just to see if he'll react.

Other than a surprised blink of Merlin's eyes, there's nothing. It twists in Gwaine's chest to do it, but he pastes on a grin and flips his hair out of his eyes, gives Merlin a wink, and heads toward the door.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he calls back over his shoulder, and then he steps out to where he knows his horse is waiting.

He's got a prince to challenge, and then drag back here by his ear if he won't come willingly.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a plan for this chapter, and then a random druid showed up. Damn druids. Looks like we're pushing back the confrontation between Arthur and Gwaine by just one more chapter. Sorry for that; I know some of you are really getting anxious, and I don't blame you.

Gwaine eyes the gaming table a bit wistfully later that night; as much as he'd like to engage in a round of dice, he's on something of a mission and can't really afford to get involved. Ordinarily, he'd be the first to throw his hands in the air and be the voice of temptation— _Come on, it's only one game!_ —but if he gets into a brawl tonight, or gambles away all his coin, he might not make it back to Camelot in one piece. Might not get to confront Arthur, or bring him back to the druids' camp, willing or unwilling.

Ah, well, at least the ale is good.

Just as he's about to pay for his meal, a man sits down beside him on the long bench and nods to him as if they know one another. Gwaine would ignore him with a simple, "Evening, friend," and head up to bed, except that the man catches his eye and then deliberately pulls up his sleeve to reveal a druid tattoo on the inside of his wrist. Gwaine raises an eyebrow, as the man tucks it away again, careful to use his other hand to signal the tavern maid.

"What brings you out on a night like tonight?" Gwaine asks. The weather is actually quite mild, but he can't imagine a druid wanting to leave the forest and risk exposure in Camelot for anything that isn't dire.

"You are friends with Emrys, are you not?" asks the man.

Gwaine's eyes narrows. "I may have heard the name before," he allows. "Depends who's asking."

The druid only nods and glances over his shoulder, before leaning in close. "My… colleagues and I heard a rumor that he was in danger of forsaking his destiny," the man starts, and Gwaine's lip curls in disgust.

"I'm getting really damned tired of hearing people speak about _my friend_ only in terms of how _useful_ he will be to them once he fulfills his so-called destiny," he spits, just barely remembering in time to keep his voice down so as not to draw attention. "If that's all you care about, I'll bid you a good night and be on my way."

The man, who still hasn't given his name, clasps Gwaine's sleeve. "I mean no harm," he says, expression almost fearful. "I only came to warn you."

"You haven't told me anything I didn't already know," says Gwaine, shaking him off as he stands.

"If Emrys turns away from his destiny, then his other half will be in danger," insists the druid. "The one cannot be without the other. And if they do not reconcile soon, then I fear for the darkness that will envelop all Albion."

Gwaine studies the man's face and sees only earnest sincerity. Slowly, he sits back down, a bit annoyed with himself as he does. He really shouldn't be giving any truck to this destiny nonsense, but if Arthur or Merlin are in danger directly… "What have you heard, then?" he asks.

The druid lowers his voice even further. "How much do you know about eclipses?" he asks.

What this has to do with anything, Gwaine has no clue, but he answers anyway. "Sun goes dark for a few minutes, then brightens again. Superstitious people think they're bad luck. Not much else."

The druid shakes his head. "There is more to them than that. Much more. Let me eat my meal, and then we can go to your room and talk."

Gwaine just looks at the man, unimpressed. "I thought this was urgent," he says.

"Oh, it is. But it's more than I can tell you here, in a crowded taproom."

Gwaine summons the bar maid with a gesture and a wink. "I've a better idea," he says. In a trice, he's gotten two more mugs and a pitcher of ale, a bowl of the evening's stew, and a loaf of bread delivered up to his sleeping room. He'd spent a bit of extra coin so as not to share the bed or the room with three other people, which means that for tonight, he and the druid will have privacy here.

"All right," Gwaine says once the maid is gone, "you can talk while you eat." He tosses his coat onto the hook behind the door and drops onto the bed, letting the druid take the spot at the tiny table.

The druid takes a deep breath, then. "Right now, as things currently stand, Emrys is attempting to walk away from his destiny, even as his king, the Once and Future King, moves closer to embracing it. In a few months' time, however, there is going to be an eclipse, and there is more to them than just peasant superstition. If your friend leaves the prince unprotected during the eclipse, he may die. Even if he doesn't die, without Emrys, Camelot will surely fall."

"And how d'you know that?"

The druid passes a hand across his face and reaches for his drink. "I'm struggling to find a way to explain the magic of an eclipse to someone who doesn't have magic," he says. "Bear with me."

That seems fair enough. "All right."

"All life, all magic, has a flow," the druid says slowly. "The waxing and waning of the moon, the turning of the seasons… the cycle of life from birth to death and then rebirth." _Rebirth?_ Gwaine frowns and wants to ask about that, but the druid is continuing on. "You could think of those flows as the motion of a pendulum, swinging back and forth eternally. An eclipse, for various reasons I won't go into, causes something of a pause in the swing of the pendulum. Something like… like the moment of suspension before the pendulum changes direction, swings back the other way."

"All right," says Gwaine again. It's about as clear as mud, but he can tell the man isn't trying deliberately to be obtuse. Sometimes it seems as if the druids can only speak in prophecy and riddle, but this one at least appears to be making an honest attempt at being as direct as he can.

"When the pendulum is suspended in midair like that, it's possible for a person to _nudge_ it, as it were, and change its direction. For magic, in the past, that meant that several high priests and priestesses could work together to maintain, or shift, the balance of the world. A single powerful sorcerer could do it, in theory, but they would have known better than to try, because the results would be unpredictable and unstable."

"Go on."

The druid sighs. "The witch, Morgana, plans to use the upcoming eclipse to try and 'nudge' fate more to her favor," he says, and Gwaine feels his stomach drop. "Ordinarily, I would say such a thing is impossible, but Emrys has removed himself from the field of influence, for the time being."

"And that's bad," Gwaine guesses.

The druid huffs a little laugh, but there is not much humor in it. "Yes, that's bad. Your friend is in danger of forsaking his destiny, and our seers have warned that he is even considering giving up his magic. He has _so much_ magic… Ordinarily, I would say that the mere presence of Emrys would be enough to stabilize the pendulum's swing and make Morgana's attempt fail, but if he is not there…"

"Then Morgana could succeed."

"And she is just mad enough to attempt it in the first place, which should frighten us all," says the druid. "The eclipse will take place in three months' time, near the southeastern coast of Albion. If Emrys and the future king are not reconciled by then, Camelot _will_ fall. Uther will almost certainly die, but even if his son survives, he will be a fugitive, an exile. Powerless. We can keep Emrys safe for a time, keep him hidden, but the witch is strong. She will find us eventually, and him, if he does not go to his king's side. And all the while, the Once and Future King will be hunted by her and those who agree with her cause. With the momentum of fate itself on her side…" The druid shakes his head helplessly. "It will just be a matter of time. By winter, she could rule us all."

Gwaine mulls that over. He's not always one for wisdom, but even he knows that he has to ask the right questions if he's going to have anything useful to take to Arthur or Merlin. "What would it look like, to have fate on her side?" he asks.

"Little things that add up," says the druid. "Luck in the right moment. Inspiration to find the right idea for success at the right time. Allies, placed where and when one needs them. Chance meetings that change the course of one's plans. You know," he says with a shrug. "Fate."

"To hear Merlin tell it, fate's never exactly been on _his_ side. Who's to say it will be on Morgana's? Especially if she does something that upsets the balance this way."

"That's just it," says the other man. "Fate doesn't have to be on her side for very long; just long enough to make the difference. After she has won Camelot, it is unlikely she'll be able to keep it, because the balance of fate will shift again. But no one else will be able to win it and hold it, either. All of Albion—perhaps all of the world—will descend into chaos, and only a ritual held at another eclipse will be able to put it right. But who is to say any sorcerers or priests of the Old Religion will survive long enough to be able to perform that working? It is far more likely that chaos will reign forever. It would be much, much better to prevent this thing taking place than it would be to attempt to repair it."

Gwaine nods. "Do you know where she plans to try this? Does she have to be where the eclipse is?"

Now the druid looks only sad and afraid. "She does not, and I do not know where she might go in an attempt to enhance her powers. Those who know her better, or are better seers, may be able to see such things before it is too late. On the other hand, if Emrys takes up his magic again, perhaps he will be able to find her. Or perhaps, he will not even need to be present. He himself is a stabilizing force in the world, simply by virtue of how much magic he carries within his person. There are those who say he is _made_ of magic, even."

"Yes, I've heard," says Gwaine. "But again, you'd think that fate would be on his side and things would be more stable with him around. Instead, to hear him tell it, things are always crazy. Never a dull moment. And he thinks he's made too many mistakes and lost too much to actually be the person all your prophecies speak of."

The druid smiles sadly. "That is because his mere existence is an attempt to right the imbalance that was caused by Uther, twenty years ago. The world fights back against Uther's purge, and wherever Emrys goes, the world has more strength to fight. Magic is stronger, enemies of Uther grow bolder. This places Emrys at the center of every battle, though he does not cause them or deserve to be there." The druid sighs and shakes his head. "Morgana could have been a powerful force in this fight, but her choices brought her too far to the other side of the balance. Now she is just as mad as the king, pulling the world in the opposite direction. She will not stop once balance is achieved, but will keep attempting to set herself up in power in Uther's place."

"Hardly seems fair that Merlin should be the one to clean up Uther's mess," says Gwaine. "And there's that destiny you all keep trying to put on his shoulders. It's too much for one person to bear, and I don't care how much magic runs in his veins."

"And that is why he is meant to have Courage by his side, and Strength to support him, and many more besides," says the druid. "The Round Table is an ideal that the ancient kings upheld. When the Once and Future King takes his rightful place, both he and Emrys will have the faith, loyalty, and dedication of all the people they will need in order to succeed in their endeavors."

The two men sit in silence for a few minutes, while the druid finishes his meal. Gwaine thinks of several things he could say, questions he could ask, but he's not sure how to word any of them. Finally, the other man stands and draws his cloak about him once more.

"You've given me hospitality where you had no cause to, and listened to my warning. In return, let me give you this: _spedig_ ," he says, and his eyes flash gold. The hair on Gwaine's arms stands on end, just briefly.

"Not sure how I feel about people casting random spells on me," says Gwaine. His heart is pounding and he's rather wishing he could draw his sword and have it do any good whatsoever, right now.

"It is only a blessing," says the druid, "not a true spell. It will bring luck on your journey and good fortune in your endeavors."

"I thought changing a man's fate was a bad idea."

For the first time, the druid grins. "I am not as mad as all that," he says. "The blessing will last from tonight until the next turning of the moon, and only in accordance with the will of the old gods." He crosses to the door, pulling his hood up over his head. "Be well, Sir Gwaine," he says, and is gone before Gwaine can answer.

He never did get the man's name.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one; have a few hundred extra words to make up for it.

Well, at least there aren't any guards waiting to arrest him when he comes through the city gate, Gwaine thinks, looking around him curiously. The lower town is as busy as always, and he doesn't seem to be attracting any unusual attention as he rides up the street to the citadel. Gwaine supposes that's a good thing, as it will make it easier for him to find Arthur.

And then maybe punch him.

The druid last night has added some urgency to Gwaine's errand, but he isn't about to let himself be distracted by prophecy and magic and all that destiny nonsense. In the end, it all comes down to Arthur having stabbed the closest friend Gwaine has ever had—accidentally or not, it doesn't matter—and said friend being now convinced that he has no reason to go on living, because Arthur hates him.

Arthur has to answer for that, prince or no prince. If Gwaine finds out that Arthur is just like every other noble and doesn't give a damn about the lower classes, he'll do a lot more than just punch the man.

Something of his emotions must show on his face when he reaches the gate leading to the castle courtyard, because the guard stops him and asks his business before letting him go on.

"I'm here to speak to Prince Arthur," says Gwaine. It's true enough.

His Highness is in council currently, according to the guard, but Sir Gwaine will be able to meet him in the training yard after the noon meal.

That in itself is a little odd, once Gwaine takes a moment to think about it. "Sir" Gwaine, he called him. Did word of his defection from the ranks not spread? The guard seemed to recognize him, but he hasn't been placed under arrest for desertion.

Something is fishy in Camelot, and Gwaine thinks he might need to find out what it is… even if he doesn't get to punch Arthur because of it.

* * *

 

Three weeks, Arthur thinks. Three weeks have come and gone, and in one more, he will finally be able to get _out_ of here and go in search of Gwaine and Merlin. He can finally find out whether Merlin lives, and if he does (of course he does, he has to), then Arthur can try to apologize for the horrible thing he's done.

He only has one more week. Council in the mornings, training in the afternoons, dinners with his father or in his chambers. On random evenings, so as not to arouse suspicion, a trip to Gaius's tower to learn more of Merlin's magic. One more week of this routine, and then he can go and see his best friend again.

He just has to endure one more week.

Arthur sighs and raises his arm, letting Kay's squire finish buckling his practice armor into place. Training is almost the only place he feels himself anymore, since Merlin's been gone (since he stabbed Merlin), and even there, he still feels some tension. It took days for the knights who had gone with him on that fateful patrol to stop looking at him askance, each of them unsure whether he still deserved their loyalty. It hurt, having their caution rather than their faith, but there was nothing he could tell them without opening up a topic he'd ordered closed.

Ector, Bors, and Lucan, the older knights, all simply let the matter drop once it became clear to them that Arthur didn't seem to be pining for Merlin in any unusual fashion, or to be eaten up with guilt. They don't seem to understand how skilled an actor a man of royal blood can become, in order to survive the intrigues of court.

The younger men, however, the ones Arthur knighted personally in the keep of the ancient kings… well, they have taken longer to let go of the loss of two of their own. Arthur can't blame them; he hasn't let go of them himself, after all.

And it is _two_ of their own. Lancelot, Percival, and Elyan all seem to regard Merlin with just as much respect as they do Gwaine. That means more to Arthur than he can really put into words, the fact that they could care for Merlin even half as much as Arthur himself does, even if none of them has said anything about it. Arthur has a strong suspicion that the only reason none of them have confronted him, in spite of his order not to discuss the matter, is because Lancelot and Gwen have spoken, and Lancelot has quietly passed along what he's learned. Technically that goes against Arthur's command, but he never gave Gwen that order, and in any case Arthur is grateful that they've mostly gone back to looking at him with some measure of trust.

Kay's boy finishes strapping Arthur in and ducks out of his chambers with a little bow, no doubt off to see to Kay as he should. Arthur sighs, and picks up his helm and sword, thinking of his own servant all the while as he heads down to the training yard.

* * *

 

They're halfway through warming up when there's a commotion at the far end of the field. If it's the trainees, Arthur will bash their heads in. No discipline, the lot of them, and they don't seem to realize just how deadly a disruption in the line could be in a war. He stalks over there, ready to beat whatever idiots are involved.

To Arthur's surprise, the men falling out of line are actually Ector and Lucan, surrounded by others, though Lucan looks to be holding Ector back. To his shock, the man Ector appears to be squaring off against is Gwaine.

Gwaine, for his part, looks well, relaxed and lazy in the way that Arthur knows means he's seconds from unleashing all his fury at whoever is standing in front of him. He's got a flask in one hand, and as Arthur watches, he takes a pull from it and grimaces at the burn of whatever liquor he's hiding there.

"I'm not here for you, Ector," the man says, "but I'll be happy to break your nose again for you if it comes down to it."

Ector lunges, and Lucan yanks him back, just as Arthur barks, "Sir Ector! Stand down."

The other knight can't seem to decide whether he'd rather glare more at Arthur or at Gwaine, until Lucan whispers something in his ear and the tension drops out of his shoulders. His eyes are still stormy, though, and he's clenching his jaw like it's all he can do to keep from hurling insults at everyone in range. With a final glare full of disgust at Gwaine, he spits on the ground and stomps off, tearing his arm out of Lucan's grasp.

"Sir Gwaine," says Arthur, and the other man raises an eyebrow at him. "I'm glad you've returned safely. Gentlemen," he continues, taking in the gaze of every man around him, "I know there has been speculation and rumor in the ranks as to where Gwaine has been these past weeks. I forbade my patrol to speak of it so as not to endanger his mission." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gwaine mouthing the word and trying to look as if he has any idea what Arthur is talking about.

"Where has he been, sire?" asks one of the trainees.

"Mercia. We suspected that the bandits we encountered had been paid by Bayard to harass us rather than his own people. I will be hearing Gwaine's report privately, and will determine personally whether Camelot needs to move against Mercia. Don't get your hopes up," he adds, as he sees the men begin to trade excited looks. Hungry to prove themselves in battle, some of them, while the rest know better than to look forward to war.

"And your manservant, sire?"

Arthur takes a breath. "I expect I'll learn more from Gwaine's report. Leon: take over the drill today, if you please. Gwaine, with me."

* * *

 

"Mission, eh?" says Gwaine, once they're out of earshot of the rest.

"I ordered the patrol not to speak of what happened," Arthur explains. "I didn't want Father sending a troop to hunt you down."

"You were protecting Merlin," Gwaine realizes. "You still are."

Arthur doesn't answer for a moment, as they pass a pair of guards and a handful of servants on their way across the courtyard. "He saved my life," he finally says quietly, as they reach the stair leading to the royal wing of the castle. "It seemed a poor way to repay him, to have him murdered for the methods he used."

Gwaine looks Arthur over, assessing him thoroughly, watching as the younger man turns a little red under his scrutiny. He doesn't say anything, though, just lets Arthur stew for a bit while they complete the walk to his chambers. If he really cares about Merlin, Gwaine will find out soon enough.

Finally they arrive, and Arthur unlocks the door and lets him in, waving the other man to a seat at the table. There is a pitcher of wine waiting, along with a platter of bread, dried meat, and fruit. Gwaine picks up an apple and tosses it from hand to hand while Arthur shuts and locks the door behind him. Stalling for time, Gwaine suspects.

"Is he alive?" Gwaine looks up, and Arthur isn't even facing him. He's still wearing his armor, so his body language is a bit hard to read, but Gwaine thinks he can pick up on the tension in the duck of his head and in his fists, clenched around door handle and key.

"He survived your stabbing, if that's what you're asking."

If anything, Arthur tightens up even more. "But is he _alive_ , now?"

Gwaine takes a bite of apple, and waits, but Arthur still doesn't turn around. Doesn't want to face the news, does he? "He was alive when I left him," says Gwaine finally, and Arthur's entire posture seems to melt like candle wax in the sun. He sags forward, and even his knees seem to buckle for just the barest instant, as he rests his forehead against the wood of the door. The hand holding the room key drops to his side limply. "It was a near thing, what with the infection and the fever, but he pulled through. Didn't expect you to care."

Now Arthur turns around, and he's glaring, but his eyes look just a bit glassy. A bit wet. He says nothing, but that's fine with Gwaine.

"You stabbed him, Arthur," he says, all trace of sarcasm gone. "He reached out to you, bleeding there on the forest floor, and you stepped away from him like he had the plague."

"I know—" Arthur's voice is hoarse, but Gwaine isn't finished yet.

"Honestly, I'm a bit surprised you made up any story at all to cover for him," he goes on. His stare is boring into Arthur. "Me, I can take care of myself. Banish me, and I'll just pop up someplace else where the ale is good and the women are comely. Merlin, though… well, he wouldn't fare so well, would he, with no friends and nowhere to go? But why should that matter, aye? He's just a servant. They're replaceable, right?"

Arthur shuts his eyes and swallows, but says nothing to defend himself. Gwaine studies him a bit more.

"You really are sorry, aren't you?" he asks after a moment. "You think you deserve whatever I have to say to you."

"Don't I?"

"Oh, you do, and more than that besides," says Gwaine. "I'd planned to throw a glove at your feet and beat some sense into you if I had to. But it might be that you've beaten it into your own head for once."

At this, one corner of Arthur's mouth turns up; he glances away and wipes his eyes, then meets Gwaine's gaze. "The past three weeks have been… educational."

"Have they."

"I've learned more about Merlin's… abilities," says Arthur. Even with the door locked, he lowers his voice and glances over his shoulder. "About the things Merlin has done to protect me. Protect the kingdom. I've learned about mistakes he's made, too, bad calls, but… maybe if he hadn't had to make those decisions alone, he could have done better."

"And you think he'll open up and talk to you from now on, if you go find him? That everything will go back to the way it was before?"

"I don't want it to go back to the way it was before," says Arthur with a shake of his head. "And…" He sighs, and finally moves away from the door toward the table. "In all honesty, I don't know how to safely bring him back to Camelot, for as long as my father continues to reign."

That's fair, Gwaine supposes; a lot of people did see Merlin perform magic, and it's still extremely illegal to have it in Camelot. Until Arthur is king, there's likely not a lot he can do.

However, that's not a problem Gwaine has been tasked to solve. He's the Strength in their triad, supposedly, and he needs to bring Courage back to Magic. If Merlin can't come to Camelot, well then, he'll just have to bring Arthur to the druids.

"He still needs you," Gwaine says, "just as you need him."

At this, Arthur looks away again, visibly uncomfortable. "Even a month ago, I'd have argued with you that I didn't, however true that might be," he says. "Now, though… it's clear that I wouldn't even be alive without him, several times over. And… more than that. Even before I knew of his… skills… I valued his counsel. Valued him, for all that I didn't always show it or even realize it. I do need him." It looks to Gwaine like it's pulling teeth for Arthur to admit it out loud, but he does admit it, and that counts for something.

It's a shame Merlin doesn't know that, though. "So what's the problem, then?" he asks.

"The problem is that I'm not sure Merlin needs _me_. I'm not sure what I can offer him, until I am king. A place by my side? He's more than earned it, but I cannot _give_ it to him while my father lives."

"Oh, he needs you all right, Princess," says Gwaine.

"How? Why would he? He has," Arthur lowers his voice still further, "magic. And now he's living with the druids. They can teach him, help him control his powers. I can't offer him that."

"Have you considered that what he needs most is you at _his_ side?" Gwaine asks. "Same as you need him for more than his magic, he needs you for more than just your power as a royal. As for helping you, or a place at your side… Our Merlin isn't one to aim for glory or reward. You should know that by now."

Arthur sighs. "I do."

"Then you should realize that just knowing that you value him would be enough. If you can't bring him to Camelot yet, the least you could do is go to him, pay him a visit, let him know you still give a damn."

"I do give a—I do value him," snaps Arthur.

Gwaine only shrugs. "Then prove it."

To his surprise, Arthur only smiles. "I'd told my father that you were spying in Mercia," he explains, "and that if you weren't back in a month I would go and find you. It's been three weeks."

Now that is a surprise, and a pleasant one. Better than Gwaine had been expecting. "Too bad I came back, then," he says.

"No. No, this will still work," says Arthur, standing and beginning to pace. "For one, it makes the story more credible that you came back at all. For another… we'll say that Merlin is still there, because… we'll say it's because the situation was too sensitive to leave alone completely. That your mission isn't over yet. Something like that. It should be enough."

Enough to convince Uther? "Seems a mite flimsy, Princess," says Gwaine.

Arthur only presses his lips together and looks away. "My father likely won't even notice I've gone," he says bitterly. "And I don't answer to the council. Not yet."

Gwaine has no interest in involving himself in affairs of state. Whatever Uther's state of mind, whatever that means for the kingdom, is irrelevant. If it gets Arthur to Merlin, so much the better. "So when are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow," says Arthur. "We'll depart tomorrow."


	16. Chapter 16

Arthur thinks he should be in a better mood, now that he's finally going to see Merlin. He's told Gaius and Gwen where he's headed, and Gwen will likely see to telling Lancelot, so he knows he'll have at least some support from his knights when he returns. But some support isn't full support, and Arthur worries about Ector, Bors, and Lucan. Bors and Lucan seem content to let things go, even though they know he's lying about the pretext for their mission to the Mercian border; Ector, however, could stir up all manner of trouble before Arthur can return to quell it.

To make matters worse, Uther seemed not to care at all about Arthur's reasons for leaving for a few days, and barely seemed to remember their previous conversation about the Mercian "bandits" in the first place. It is clear that something is going to have to be done about the kingship soon, and it does not sit well with Arthur to think about forcing his own father to abdicate; nothing about this situation is good for the kingdom. And of course, it doesn't help that in quiet moments, Arthur is left to wonder bitterly whether Uther would ever have been so broken up about losing his son, the way he's been over losing the daughter he never even publicly acknowledged.

The biggest source of his bad mood, however, is Gwaine. The other knight—former knight?—has barely said two words to him on this entire journey, when ordinarily he'd be prattling on almost as aimlessly as Merlin himself, relating some bawdy tale or other. Instead, he seems content to let Arthur stew in his worry, refusing to answer his questions about Merlin's health and what they've been up to in the past three weeks. Arthur knows only that Merlin faced infection in the wound Arthur gave him, and suffered a fever. Beyond that, how close to death Merlin came, or whether the druids' magic saved him, or anything else, Gwaine has refused to say. It's been hours of silence from the man, and it's driving Arthur mad.

* * *

 

Finally they stop for the night at a tavern, and Arthur watches as Gwaine pays for their rooms with Mercian silver. He recognizes the stamped coins as belonging to Bayard's kingdom and not Uther's, and raises an eyebrow. Gwaine catches him at it and adds to the innkeeper, "And we'll have dinner in our room, thank you," and drops another coin into the woman's hand.

Upstairs, Gwaine shuts the door and begins pulling his boots off. "You were right about those bandits being paid off by Mercia," he says to Arthur's unspoken question. "I liberated that pouch from one of the men in the clearing."

"I see." It's the most Gwaine has said to him all day, other than, "Turn here," or "Left up ahead," and Arthur's not sure how to keep him talking. He takes a deep breath. "I know you're still angry with me," he tries.

It works. "You're not wrong, Princess. In point of fact, I'm still a bit regretful that I haven't punched you yet for what you did to Merlin. I had promised myself I would, you see, the next time I saw you."

Arthur's irritation evaporates into the cloud of shame that's been hovering over him ever since it happened. "I'd deserve it," he says. They had discussed this at the castle, but Arthur's not sure he's done punishing himself for what he did. If Gwaine wants to heap some abuse on his head to feel better, well, it'd be no more than he's been doing to himself in between the magic lessons, ruling in his father's stead, and trying to keep too busy to think about it.

"You deserve worse, Arthur," says Gwaine. "You damn near killed him."

"I know!"

"No, you don't. Because I haven't told you."

"You could tell me now," Arthur replies, then swallows, trying to wet a mouth gone suddenly dry. "Although I've seen wounds like his before. I've inflicted them before."

"And how would you know how bad it was?" presses Gwaine. "I don't recall you even looking at him after it happened, never mind examining his wound. I got to see it up close. I got to bandage him, and bathe him, and help the druids keep his fever from killing him, when the infection hit."

Arthur closes his eyes, feeling sick. He braces himself for more, or even for that punch Gwaine's been angling for, but instead he hears the other man sigh.

"We went over this already in Camelot," he says. "I figured you were sitting there, back in your noble castle with your noble concerns, with no thought for the man you stabbed, after he saved your life. But now I see that that wasn't the case."

"It wasn't."

"Good. But I'm not interested in talking about you anymore, anyway."

Arthur blinks. "What?"

Gwaine leans forward, expression serious. "We need to talk about Merlin. Whatever torture you've been putting yourself through, you can save it for later. He needs you, not your guilt, aye?"

"…I understand." And he can even see where that would be a problem; there's still a part of him that needs Gwaine to hear about the nightmares he had of Merlin, lying in front of him on the forest floor. Begging, abject and in agony… Arthur shivers involuntarily and pushes the thought aside. Gwaine is right. This conversation shouldn't be about him.

"Merlin's not well," Gwaine is saying. "Not just from what you did. He took a fever and it nearly killed him, I think I told you that."

"You did."

Gwaine nods. "He was delirious; even did magic in his sleep. Surprised the hell out of Nesta, their healer."

Arthur can't help the little smile that steals across his face, despite the topic. "Yes. Me too."

The other man looks up at that. "Oh?"

"I was hunting—well, I was outside the castle, trying to think, anyway—and a large, angry boar surprised me. Merlin's magic saved me. Again."

At that, Gwaine smiles too, but soon sobers again. "After the delirium faded, once he began to recover, he had nightmares. Still does, but he won't talk about them."

"I'm not surprised," says Arthur. "And I can hardly blame him for it."

"It's worse than that," says Gwaine. "He's not recovering his strength as quickly as he should. He barely eats. Won't talk to anyone. The other druids have even offered to teach him, and he's turned them down. He's mentioned to me that he's considered giving up his magic completely."

The way Gwaine says it, Arthur thinks there must be something more to it than just Merlin giving up his magic. It would be safer in Camelot for him if he did, after all, but after having saved Arthur and Camelot so many times, Arthur has a hard time imagining that Merlin would ever really go through with it. "Because I stabbed him?"

Gwaine sighs, and leans forward, rubbing his eyes with a tired hand. "Because he thinks you hate him. And more than that. How much do you know about the prophecies surrounding the two of you?"

Merlin thinks Arthur hates him? The knowledge pierces Arthur as surely as he pierced Merlin with that damned dagger. Of course he'd think that. And yet… he's a perpetual optimist, Merlin is, always with a sunny smile and a kind word. The idea that Arthur could have broken Merlin to the point that he no longer has any hope of them restoring their friendship, that he would actually believe Arthur despises him… "He thinks I hate him," he says, tasting the words like ash upon his tongue.

"He does," says Gwaine, not harsh or loud in his response, but implacable all the same, and Arthur flinches. "But you didn't answer my question."

His question. "You said something about prophecies?" Then he blinks. "Ah. Yes. I don't know much. Gaius only told me that I'm meant to be high king of all Albion, with Merlin at my side. And that Merlin is supposedly—" _The most powerful sorcerer ever to have lived or walked the earth_ , according to Gaius. "—very strong."

"Strong enough he might live forever," says Gwaine, and Arthur can feel his jaw dropping.

"What?"

"Do you remember when we went to the Perilous Lands? That dwarf that guarded the bridge? He spoke to us."

"Spoke in riddles," says Arthur. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"What did he say to you?"

Arthur sighs in annoyance. "He said something about how I had courage, but I would need magic and strength to succeed in my quest."

"No," says Gwaine, "he probably said that you _were_ Courage. As for Magic and Strength, well, who showed up to help you, hm?"

There's a knock at the door, and Gwaine lets in a boy carrying a tray full of food, a corked jug of ale, and two mugs. While he sets everything out on the table, Arthur thinks about Gwaine's words. When the boy has gone, he asks, "You're saying Merlin is Magic, and what, you're supposed to be Strength?"

"Even the druids think so," says Gwaine, pouring out the ale, and Arthur nearly chokes on the bite of bread he'd taken.

"All right, what does that have to do with Merlin? You said something about him living forever?"

Gwaine takes a gulp of ale and grimaces. "Merlin doesn't just _have_ magic, according to them. He lives it. Breathes it. Is made of it, according to some stories. And in those same stories, he'll live as long as magic lives in the world. Which means, well… Well." He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. "According to the druids, magic is as much a part of the world as the sea and the sky."

Arthur grimaces, then he turns to his pack and opens it. Digging deep, he reveals one corner of the book that Gaius entrusted to him to take to Merlin. "According to this, magic is the energy of life itself," he says quietly. "And according to Gaius, Merlin was born with the ability to manipulate that energy."

Gwaine nods. "Doesn't surprise me. The druids think he can do things that are supposed to be impossible. Like when he worked magic while he was delirious with fever." He shakes his head and smiles, just a little. "You should have seen their faces."

"I can imagine."

"The point is, a man like that, like Merlin, someone _made_ of magic, he can't just give it up. It'd be like you or I trying to give up breathing. It just doesn't work."

"But Merlin wants to do that anyway."

Gwaine shuts his eyes in a pained expression that Arthur isn't sure he's ever seen on the other man. "He's already trying. He turned down the druids when they offered to teach him. He thinks there's no purpose to his even having magic anymore, that he's just some sort of freak."

Arthur grimaces.

"Those prophecies, the ones that put him at your side while you bring about a golden age for Albion? He thinks he's not the one anymore. He thinks that if you hate him and don't need him or his magic or his protection anymore, then they can't possibly be talking about him. So there's no more point to his having magic, so he may as well give it up. It's—Princess, I'm really afraid that it's killing him."

Arthur takes a deep breath, surprised at how shaky it sounds. He's always needed Merlin; now it appears Merlin needs him, too. Convincing Merlin of that may take some doing, if he believes Arthur hates him, but he'll have to do it if he wants to keep his friend.

"There's more," says Gwaine, and Arthur isn't sure he can stomach it.

"How much worse does it get?" he asks.

"How does the destruction of Camelot sound to you?" Gwaine's tone is light as he raises a brow and tilts his head, but it's clear he's not joking.

Arthur's mouth goes dry and metallic-tasting with dread. "Tell me," he says.

"Over dinner," promises Gwaine.

The food smells good, but Arthur's appetite is almost completely gone. Still, he forces himself to take a few bites of roasted fish and vegetables, ignoring the way they taste mostly like grease and smoke to him, picking the bones out as best he can, and trying not to give in completely to his worry.

Gwaine seems unaffected, tearing off great hunks of bread and shoveling food into his mouth like he hasn't eaten in weeks, and all the while, mouth full or otherwise, he spins a tale of madness, magic, and Morgana, and the chaos that will descend on all Albion—possibly all the world—if Arthur cannot convince Merlin to retake his place at Arthur's side.

"She hates us that much," is all he can say when the other man is done.

"And Merlin is that vital," says Gwaine.

"Surely if he knew this—"

"I'm not sure his knowing would help, actually."

Arthur frowns at him. "What do you mean?"

"He already thinks you hate him," Gwaine points out. "He doesn't know I've gone to fetch you back. If he sees you and the first thing you tell him is that he's needed—his _magic_ is needed—to fight Morgana, d'you really think that will do anything to repair your friendship? Or do you think he'd just feel like you're there to use him and then cast him aside once you're done with him?"

"I wouldn't do that!"

"He doesn't _know_ that," is all Gwaine says, "not anymore. He thought you were friends until you stabbed him. Or maybe it was after that, when he reached out and you pulled away."

"I was in shock—"

"He's not listening to reason right now," says Gwaine. "At least, not from me. I've tried to tell him, but he won't listen. Maybe hearing it from you will help. But if you come to him first with news of Morgana and this damned eclipse, I really don't think it will do a damn bit of good."

"Then why did you tell _me?_ " Arthur demands, dragging his hands through his hair. He gets up to pace the little room, barely three steps across and with their dining table in the way. "I need Merlin whether he has magic or not, but I've no idea how to convince him of that. I brought that book with me to show him that I don't _care_ about the magic, that I'm glad he has it, that I won't begrudge him continuing to study it. I can't bring him back to Camelot, not yet, not while my father rules. And of the knights who saw him work magic to save my life, half of them wanted to see him executed or left to die. It isn't _safe_ for him to come back, not yet. And I have," he laughs suddenly, " _no idea_ what to do about that. But that doesn't mean I don't want him there, every single day." He exhales sharply, suddenly exhausted from three weeks of shame and guilt and fear and worry, all on top of the burdens of his kingship without Merlin there to tell him everything will be all right. "Every single day," he says again, nearly a whisper.

He's startled when Gwaine lays a hand on his shoulder. "Tell him that," he says. "Tell him that, and make him listen, and you just might win him back from the dark place he's gone."

And Arthur isn't sure if he'll succeed or not, but the stakes are too high not to try.


	17. Chapter 17

"The dark place he's gone", Gwaine had called it. If only Arthur had been able to fathom just how right that description is. He might've… what? Been better prepared to face Merlin right now? Somehow, Arthur doubts it.

They make it to the druid camp, seemingly empty to Arthur's eye. As he dismounts, though, he sees two women and a man approaching them, and he can hear quickly hushed voices inside one of the nearby tents. The silence is eerie, and unnerving, but still better than the screams of terror and pain he'd heard the last time he'd entered a druid camp uninvited.

"Arthur Pendragon," says the older woman, holding herself stiffly. "I am Derwen, the leader of this camp." She softens her posture and her gaze as she glances over at Gwaine. "It was good of you to bring him, Sir Gwaine."

"I just hope it helps," Gwaine replies. "How is he?"

The other woman shakes her head, and Arthur feels dread beginning to pool in the pit of his stomach. "It's not good," she says. To Arthur, she continues, "I am Nesta. I healed Emrys of the wound you inflicted."

Arthur barely covers the flinch at her words. They are not unfair, after all, and do a lot to explain why Derwen is so reserved toward him. Not that he needs the explanation. What he's done to Merlin, what he's done to the druids themselves in his past, is all he needs in order to justify why they hide themselves from his sight. "I am in your debt," he says instead. "Gwaine told me you saved his life."

"He lives," Nesta says doubtfully. "But his heart is broken. I do not know that I have saved him at all; I think that will be your task, Pendragon."

"Just tell me what I need to do." Gwaine glances at him in visible surprise, and Arthur resists the urge to glare at him. Do they all really think he values Merlin so little?

"I cannot tell you that," Nesta replies. Before he can object, she continues, "I am not his other half. And while he has stayed with us these past weeks, I cannot claim to know him well. He has kept himself apart from us. You, on the other hand, have known him for years."

 _Have I?_ Arthur thinks, remembering what he'd told Gaius. It had been hard to feel that he knew Merlin at all, after discovering that he'd kept such a massive secret from them all this time. On the other hand, he knows why Merlin had needed to, and having read Merlin's spell book, he thinks he understands a bit more of what it might mean to have magic.

It's still an open question, though, as to whether their friendship has all been an act on Merlin's part. All this talk of prophecy, all the things Gaius and Gwaine have told him; has Merlin only associated with Arthur at all because of some stupid destiny?

"I would have thought, with the magic that you share, you would know him better than I do by now," Arthur says, but Nesta only shakes her head.

"Not so," she replies, and Derwen nods in agreement. "We know _Emrys_ , and even then, only from our stories and prophecies; you, on the other hand, know Merlin, the man who was born to carry that burden."

"It's not a burden I know much about," says Arthur.

"Perhaps you can convince Merlin to tell you of it," says Derwen, and Arthur thinks, _Well, that was helpful._

"All right," he says, taking a deep breath, "where is he?"

"He remains where Sir Gwaine left him," says Nesta, which doesn't tell Arthur much of anything, but her brow is creased with concern, so he doesn't complain the way he wants to. "Go gently with him."

Arthur nods, and looks over at Gwaine; the other man shrugs and indicates a direction with his head.

In silence, they walk through the camp to a tent near the center, facing a large, open area with a fire pit in the middle. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur thinks he spots a child's head, peeking out at him from behind another tent flap, which is quickly dropped when he turns his head to get a better look.

"They don't trust you," says Gwaine. "I don't blame them."

Arthur sighs; it looks as though being back in the druid camp has reminded Gwaine of his anger toward Arthur. "Neither do I," he says, and hopes the other man understands that he means it for both the druids and the knight.

They stop outside a tent that to Arthur is almost indistinguishable from the others; only a few charms hanging from the tent poles and a row of wilted flowers on the ground by the entrance set it apart. Gwaine huffs when he sees them, but doesn't explain them. "I'll wait out here," is all he says. Then he meets Arthur's eyes, and all humor drops from his expression until he looks like the deadly warrior Arthur knows him to be. "Don't fuck this up."

"I won't," says Arthur, but that doesn't seem to be good enough for his former (former?) knight. "You have my word."

Gwaine studies him a moment longer, and Arthur actually begins to feel… apprehensive, under that gaze, before the other man finally nods. "All right, then," he says, and takes himself off to sit beside the fire ring. A child comes dashing out to meet him, and Gwaine's easy smile is the last thing Arthur sees before he ducks under the flap.

* * *

 

The first thing he notices is how dim it is, inside the tent; it's full day, and even though the tents are sheltered by the trees, Arthur would expect to be able to see a bit better. There's an oil lamp lit and hanging from a roof pole, with a flame dancing fitfully on its wick, but the light refuses to settle and doesn't reach very far. Arthur wonders, with Merlin's magic being so strong, whether or not that's natural. Could his sadness literally darken a room? God knows his smile could brighten one, in Arthur's experience anyway.

He feels a bit foolish when his eyes adjust and he sees the tapestries hung along the walls for privacy.

The second thing Arthur notices is the smell. Merlin, it would seem, hasn't bothered to look after himself much while Gwaine has been gone. The scent is a little like Gaius's sickroom when he has patients, which might be left over from Merlin's injury and fever, but it also reminds Arthur of the rank odor he's found in some of the more far-flung villages, where the peasants don't bathe very often and spend their days sweating in the sun and tending animals in the muck. Arthur finds his mouth turning down in disgust before he stops himself. Merlin is clearly in a bad way if he would neglect himself like this. Arthur may have joked in the past about Merlin being a filthy peasant and an idiot, but it's become more than clear to him that his friend is anything but. This smell is not a good sign, at all.

He takes a step further in, letting his eyes adjust, and hears Merlin sigh from the other side of the lamp. There's a pallet, a few inches off the coarsely woven rug, and a lump of blankets huddled there. In the dim light, Arthur can just make out the shape of Merlin's ear, sticking out from his hair just past the edge of the blanket.

"Gwaine?" says the other man, and Arthur winces to hear his voice. It's hoarse, weak as an old man's, and empty of any joy.

"It's not Gwaine," says Arthur, and he sees the shoulders stiffen. Merlin doesn't get up, however, just seems to shrink further into his blankets. Arthur steps over, the lamp casting his shadow across Merlin's body, and crouches down beside the bed. "Move your legs, lazybones, I need somewhere to sit."

For a long moment, Arthur is afraid that Merlin won't respond to him at all, but finally he shifts and sits up, pulling the blankets across his lap. The smell gets a little worse as it wafts out from under the covers.

Merlin sits huddled on the other end of the pallet, elbows tucked in and blankets rucked about him in disarray. He's slouched over as if exhausted or in pain, and in the dim light Arthur can see he's growing a beard. "You look different," he says, with false cheer.

"Are you here to kill us," asks Merlin. His voice carries almost no inflection, and something about that twists in Arthur's chest even more than his words do. Merlin, the bumbling, kindhearted fool, should never sound so… lifeless.

"No," he replies. "I came alone. Gwaine brought me."

"Why," asks Merlin.

"I came for…" He may as well admit it. "I came for you."

Merlin doesn't say anything at first; Arthur isn't sure if he's meant to fill the gap, but he's terrible at this sort of thing. Feelings. His father taught him that there was a right way for a man, a prince, to behave, and the weakness of _feelings_ was never included in that. The silence stretches awkwardly.

"You'll leave the druids alone if I come with you?" Merlin eventually asks.

Arthur blinks, and his mouth opens and closes more than once as he struggles to find the words to say. "I'm not _threatening_ the druids," he settles on finally. "I didn't… I came here for you. Not to kill you, or arrest you, or whatever other nonsense you might be thinking."

Merlin sighs. "Why wouldn't you?" he asks, and while there's a little more life in his voice, there's also so much bitterness that Arthur can almost taste it. "You already…"

"Already what?"

Merlin hunches a little further into himself. "You've made clear before that we aren't friends," he says. "And after you—" He stops, flinching, and reaches for his side. "I reached for you and you couldn't even bear for me to touch you."

"I was too… I was…" It's Arthur's turn to swallow hard, and search for the words. It goes against everything he's ever been taught to open up about things like this. But it's Merlin, and if he's comfortable sharing these sorts of things with anyone, it's Merlin. Arthur owes him this much, anyway. "I was horrified at what I'd done, and a coward. Too cowardly to face it. To face you."

"You hate sorcerers," says Merlin.

"I hate when people are trying to kill me. I hate that there's nothing I have that will combat a magical attack."

"You had me," says Merlin, his voice gone hollow and dead once more. "But I knew you'd hate me if you ever found out."

"I don't hate you!"

Merlin huffs a little laugh. Bitter, bitter. "You _stabbed_ me, Arthur."

"I know. And I'm sorry." Merlin actually stills at that, like Arthur said something he wasn't expecting. Arthur takes a risk, and puts a hand on the other man's shoulder. Merlin's sleep tunic has that oily, unwashed feel to it, and his shoulder through the thin fabric feels bony, underfed. "I wasn't thinking, and I reacted in the heat of the battle, but Merlin, I am… _truly_ sorry for what I did to you. I don't hate you, I could never—I don't think I have it in me to hate you. Gaius told me some of what you've done for me, for Camelot."

"He probably left out the mistakes I've made," says Merlin, and Arthur gives him a little squeeze.

"No. And I admit I was angry at some of what you've done. But even when I learned about you freeing the Great Dragon, I still didn't hate you."

Merlin's breath hitches. "You should," he says. "I hate myself for what I let Kilgharrah talk me into. I let him trap me into releasing him. _God_ , I was so stupid."

"You did the best you could with the information you had," says Arthur. "And you were forced to make that decision on your own, with no one to turn to. Perhaps if Camelot weren't the sort of place where you had to hide who you are, then you wouldn't have been put in such an impossible position."

"Yes, well. Doesn't matter anymore, does it?"

Arthur frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I can't go back to Camelot. Your knights saw me use magic. If I ever show my face there again, I'll be killed on sight."

"Not if I have anything to do with it," says Arthur, "and one thing you're forgetting: I do have something to do with it. In fact I have _everything_ to do with whether or not you can return."

"Except for your father," says Merlin.

Arthur sighs, deflating, because it's true. "Yes, except for him."

Merlin shrugs. "I don't see why you'd want me to return, anyway."

"Because you're the only true friend I've ever had, and I can't stand to see you like this," Arthur blurts. And then feels like an absolute ass. He isn't here to manipulate Merlin into coming back, especially when Merlin is right that returning to Camelot isn't really possible right now. "I mean… despite the difference in our stations, I… have grown fond of you. You're… valuable… to me. That is to say… I don't hate you," he finishes lamely, and feels like even more of an ass.

Merlin takes a deep breath, blinking rapidly, and turns to look at Arthur for the first time. Under the beard, his face looks thinner, and there are awful circles under his eyes. They are red-rimmed as if he hasn't been sleeping, or perhaps as if he's been spending his nights weeping instead. "You should," he breathes. "Why don't you?"

"Merlin, you saved my life. More than once, just in that battle," he replies. "And countless times before that. I wanted to ask what you'd done, but you weren't there to speak to, and I needed to tell Gaius and Gwen what had happened to you. It was Gaius who told me more about your magic, and all that you've done for me."

Merlin shakes his head. "You hate magic."

"I don't hate you."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true," Arthur presses. "Even without knowing about the magic, the things you've done for me are... your loyalty is incredible. As for the magic itself, I've had time to speak with Gaius about everything you've done, and then he let me read your magic book."

Unexpectedly, Merlin stiffens. "Does anyone else know? Is he all right? You haven't arrested him—"

" _No_ , Merlin, God. No. Do you really think so little of me?"

"Three weeks ago you left me to die," replies Merlin, and there's that bitterness again. "What did you expect me to think?"

And Arthur shuts his eyes, because he deserved that, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. He sighs, "I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do."

Merlin sighs too. "I know. Like I said, like _you_ said. I can't go back to Camelot."

"Not yet. But someday." Merlin frowns at him. "When I'm king."

"And how long will that be?" Merlin asks. He seems to already know Arthur's answer, given the way that his voice deadens once more and he goes back to looking at his hands.

"I don't know."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't expected to get another chapter out so quickly, but I got on a roll with their dialogue, and then I decided I didn't want to leave people hanging when Arthur and Merlin's reunion was finally taking place. So here we are. I hope you enjoy.

Arthur isn't quite sure how to get through to Merlin that he's still wanted. That Arthur needs him and considers him a friend. What he's gone through has thrown him into such a profound depression that Arthur really isn't sure how to reach him.

"You can't bring me home even after you're king, Arthur," Merlin is saying. "The knights would still despise me. Magic would still be illegal. I would still have to keep my secret, only everyone around me would already know it and hate me for it. Anyone I associated with would be suspect. Gwen could hang just for speaking to me, a filthy sorcerer."

"Don't call yourself that," says Arthur; he's nearly ready to tear out his hair, except that he knows that wouldn't help either.

"It's what I am," says Merlin, and Arthur has no idea how to answer that.

"The knights don't despise you," he says, changing the subject a little. "Maybe some of them, but the majority who were with us that day didn't want to see you harmed. And I've forbidden them to speak of what happened, so the rest of the knights don't know."

Merlin snorts. "They know. They're just keeping it secret from you. Knights gossip as badly as kitchen maids."

Honestly, that's exactly what Arthur is afraid of. It's entirely likely that Ector will start a whisper campaign while Arthur is gone, undermining Arthur's authority among the nobles and weakening Camelot. If the man has any wisdom or sense of duty toward the kingdom, he'll keep his mouth shut, but Arthur is not confident enough in that outcome to rely on it. "I could lift the ban when I'm king. Make magic legal again. End the Purge."

Merlin shrugs. "You could do all that, but you can't change people's minds. They would still fear magic."

"Not if you were there to show them the good it could do. Not if the druids were welcomed and their gifts put to use for the benefit of the kingdom."

Arthur is just starting to get excited about this, but Merlin only shakes his head. "People would claim you were enchanted if you did anything so sudden."

"I don't care," Arthur retorts, and Merlin blinks in surprise. "Magic was part of the realm in the time of the ancient kings. Gaius told me that it was part of Camelot itself, before I was born. The Purge has been going on for twenty-two years, yes, but magic itself has been around a lot longer. _Centuries_ longer."

Merlin actually opens his mouth to reply and then closes it. Could Arthur finally have hit on something that will pull him out of his depression?

"Look," he continues, "I know that what happened to you was terrible. I _did_ it. I hate that I did it. I want to make it up to you, even though I can't do that right away. Ending the Purge, bringing you back to Camelot… I don't know if that would even be a start to earning your friendship back, but—"

"If you have to buy it, Arthur, it's not friendship," says Merlin suddenly. "I'm not… I'm not _for sale_. I won't be bought."

"No, but trust and respect are earned, aren't they? I can't just assume that you and I can go back to the way we were as if nothing happened. I… I _stabbed_ you, Merlin."

"Trust me, I haven't forgotten," he replies, putting one hand to his side.

"…Does it still pain you?" Arthur asks. He hates the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but he has to know.

"Sometimes," Merlin admits. "Nesta did her best, but it will take time to heal."

Arthur nods. "And it will take time for us to be friends again," he says, struggling to find the right words. "I know you can't come back to Camelot straight away, and I know that's my fault."

"I'm the one who used magic."

"I'm the one who revealed you to the others," says Arthur. "But what I'm trying to say is, it will take time. I want to put that time to good use. I can work to lift the ban on magic once I'm king; perhaps you could… study it more? Learn from the druids. Or there are other options."

"I don't want to study magic anymore," says Merlin. "I used to. Mum tried to convince me that I had this great gift from the old gods… that I wasn't a freak."

"You're _not,"_ says Arthur heatedly. "Are you calling your own mother a liar? I don't ever want to hear you call yourself that again."

Merlin sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "When I first came to Camelot, I worried that I was some sort of monster," he says quietly. "It took Gaius to convince me I wasn't, and Kilgharrah to show me a purpose for my magic. But I think Kilgharrah lied, just to get what he wanted."

"Kilgharrah is the Great Dragon, right?" asks Arthur.

Merlin nods. "He's the one who told me… well. It doesn't matter what he told me."

Hmm. Arthur narrows his eyes in thought. "Would this be the bit about the prophecy, where I'm supposed to become a great king, with you by my side?"

"With Emrys by your side," says Merlin. "I see they told you, too."

"Gaius told me what he knew. Gwaine heard the rest from the druids, and told me that."

"I see." Merlin doesn't sound very happy to hear that Arthur knows about the prophecy. He's about to ask why when Merlin continues, "You're going to be the king who unites Albion. I'm sure of it, because I've seen who you are when you're not so focused on being a prat." Arthur huffs in mock affront, but Merlin isn't finished. "They say that you'll reign with Emrys at your side, guiding you and helping to bring magic back to the land."

"And that's you," says Arthur.

"I don't think it is," Merlin replies. "Not anymore."

Arthur shakes his head, not understanding. "I've read a bit more about magic, learned more than my father wanted me to know, and I want that," he says. "I think you'd be the perfect person to do that."

"I don't," says Merlin.

"Why not?" Merlin takes a deep breath and releases it in a long, slow sigh, but says nothing. "Merlin? Why not?"

"Gwaine hasn't told you this part, too?"

"I want to hear it from you."

His friend's mouth twists in bitterness. "Emrys is supposed to be destined to guide the Once and Future King. _Destined_ , Arthur. You'd think that would mean that the way would be a bit smoother when I'm doing the things I'm supposed to be doing. Saving your life, advising you, whatever. Instead I've made terrible mistakes, betrayed friends, watched people die. I lost everything, serving you. You were all I had left, or it seemed like that most days, and then you stabbed me. I lost you, too. I lost Camelot, and Gaius, and everything I've ever cared about." He shakes his head, and the bitterness disappears, to be replaced by the dull weariness that has plagued Merlin's tone since they started talking. "I don't think Emrys could really be me. Not anymore."

"But you haven't lost those things," Arthur insists, a little desperately. "I know it's hard right now. I won't deny that. But I _will_ find a way to bring you back to Camelot. I won't abandon you out here, alone, I won't throw you away like, like _used rubbish_. You're my friend, Merlin. I'll do whatever I can to help you."

Merlin sighs. "You probably will," he says. "And what else will I have to give up, in order to return to your side?"

"Hopefully nothing," says Arthur. "Hopefully you'll gain by it."

"I doubt it," says Merlin. "As I said: I don't think I'm Emrys, not anymore. If Kilgharrah didn't lie about the entire prophecy in the first place."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said, Arthur," says Merlin. "You'd think Destiny would smooth the path for whoever Emrys is supposed to be. If this is what a smoothed path looks like—losing the people I love, punishing me when I so much as consider straying from your side—then I want no part of it."

The words sting. "Then don't be Emrys," Arthur says. "Just be Merlin. Be my friend." A thought occurs to him then, something that's been niggling at him off and on, and he has to ask. "Have you only been by my side because of this supposed prophecy, then? Has our friendship been a lie?"

At this, Merlin looks up, frowning. "Not on my part, no," he says. "No, I genuinely think you are a good man and will be a great king. But this Emrys business… Kilgharrah made me think I had to be by your side, whether I liked it or not. And I got to where I did like it, once I got to know you. I do consider us friends, or I did, but… I've gotten so wrapped up in protecting you, it's as though I haven't got a life of my own anymore, and I'm not _allowed_ to have one, either. Anytime I've thought that maybe I should try to balance things a bit instead of being so wrapped up in you, anytime I've thought that maybe I could have a bit of a life away from you, someone has died to remind me that I'm not to _stray too far_." Merlin sighs again. "Will. Freya. Balinor. Did you know he was my father?"

Arthur winces a little. "Gaius told me, while he was explaining about the dragon."

"Then Gaius told you more than he did me," says Merlin, and the bitterness is back. "I had a right to know, and I never found out until the day we left to find him. I had a father for an entire day. Almost two. And that's all I got."

Arthur isn't sure how to respond to that, either. Luckily, Merlin isn't in a talkative mood, so he has time to think.

"Gwaine told me that you were depressed because you thought I hated you," he says finally. "I'm… I can certainly see why you thought that. But I don't know how to convince you that it isn't true."

Merlin gives a little shake of his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," says Arthur quietly, earnestly. "Look. You know I'm terrible at this sort of thing, but… you're one of my only friends. You—I trust you more than I've ever trusted anyone, and you've only shown me again and again that trust isn't a _weakness_ , as my father taught me. That it's worth it to try. The knights, no matter how close we are I'm still their _leader_ , we're still not _equals_. We're not _friends_."

"You told me more than once that the difference in our stations meant that we could never be friends either," says Merlin.

"Yes, but when have you ever listened to a word I say?" asks Arthur. He smiles for a moment, but when Merlin doesn't join in, he sobers again. "When have you ever seen rank between us? When have you ever taken such things seriously? You've always seen _me_ , where no one else ever even tried. You can't know what that _means_ to me. You can't, because if you did, you…" Arthur isn't sure how to finish that thought, so he trails off, shaking his head slightly. "You can't know what _you_ mean to me."

He falls silent then, waiting to see what Merlin will say. "I thought that we might be something like friends," he says, "despite all your protests. And then you stabbed me—"

"I know, and I'm _sorry_ —"

But Merlin just talks over him. "—and when I reached out to you, you pulled away. As if you couldn't bear to have me touch you, as if you were disgusted by the filthy sorcerer you'd allowed to get too close." He takes a shaky breath, and Arthur notices tears standing in his eyes for the first time. "Why did you _do_ that, Arthur?"

The hurt in his voice twists something in Arthur's chest, and without thinking he reaches up and throws his arm across Merlin's shoulders, pulling the other man close. His other hand is clasping the back of Merlin's neck before he can even think about it, and Merlin slumps into him with a wet sniffle as Arthur tucks Merlin's head under his chin.

"I'm sorry," he says, over and over. "I'm so sorry."

If there are tears on his cheeks as well, at least there is no one else in the tent to notice.

* * *

 

Merlin weeps, but he doesn't make a great girly awkward fuss about it, as Arthur had sort of feared he might. He's silent, shuddering and sniffling as his breath hitches. Every now and again his shoulders shake. But he's curled in on himself, the picture of abject misery, and it hurts Arthur to see him like this.

"When I stepped away from you… once I realized what I'd done, I was horrified," he says, after Merlin's breathing has settled a bit. "You were a sorcerer, and I was shocked, but you were also—I'd _stabbed_ you and I couldn't believe it. How could I have done such a thing, even in the heat of battle? I didn't know how to face that. When you reached for me, I… well, I already told you. I was a coward and couldn't face what I'd done. And my brain was still caught between _sorcerer_ and _friend_ , and I didn't know how to reconcile those in my head." He take a deep breath, and releases it on a chuckle. "If it's any consolation, Gwen decked me once I told her and Gaius what I'd done."

Merlin pulls away slowly, and Arthur allows it, even though he's reluctant to let go of him. Merlin has been falling apart for weeks, it seems, and from the look of things it's almost as if he needs to be held together physically right now until he can pull himself back from the places his depression has taken him. It somehow seems fitting that Arthur be the one to do it.

"So Gwen knows now?" Merlin asks, wiping at his eyes. "I suppose she'll hate me, too."

"She doesn't." Arthur can say this with certainty. "She figured out that you were the one to save her father from that magical plague, years ago. And she told me that she was your first real friend when you came to Camelot? Trust me, she _adores_ you. I got the bruise to prove it."

Merlin gives the barest little shrug. "Serves you right," he says, his voice tentative, and Arthur smiles to hear it.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is possibly a bit rambly, but I like where it went. I hope you do as well.

Their talk goes a little easier after that; Arthur, always uncomfortable with feelings as he is, can still tell that Merlin is close to being emotionally overwhelmed now that Arthur has come, and there are no more secrets between them. The conversation has been more than a little intense up to this point, so he changes the subject a little, and talks about the times he'd felt Merlin's magic while Merlin was here, in the druid camp.

"So the dream I had about the boar was real," Merlin muses.

"You thought it was a dream?"

Merlin shrugs. "I've done magic in my sleep before," he says. "In fact I worried more than once that I'd be discovered while we were out on patrol together. My room is usually a mess because things get moved around in my sleep, not because I'm as slovenly as you like to think."

Arthur just smiles and shakes his head. "Speaking of chambers, what in the world were you doing in mine, anyway?" he asks.

"I don't remember that," says Merlin. "Or… wait. I remember missing you, worrying about you. Yes, I worry, you prat, shut up."

"I said nothing!"

"Anyway, I was thinking of you and then I was there. I thought it was a fever-dream until you startled. Then I opened my eyes and I was back here." He gives a little shake of his head. "I didn't remember till just now."

"It was strange for me, too," says Arthur. "If it hadn't been for the circumstances, I'd have figured you were laughing yourself silly over having startled me and gotten away with it."

"Strange," says Merlin. " _Strange_ is being able to talk to you about this. About the magic. I've had to hide it my entire life. It feels…" He trails off, and looks Arthur in the eye with a little half-smile.

"Strange?" Arthur supplies.

"Strange," Merlin agrees with a nod.

Their gazes hold, and they both smile a little wider, and sigh, and sit in silence for a bit. It's a relief to Arthur, just to be near Merlin again and to know that he's all right, or that he will be, at least.

"What happens now?" Merlin asks after a while.

At this, Arthur can feel his contentment begin to fade. "I don't know. I can't bring you safely back to Camelot right now, not until I'm king. And that isn't fair to you, but as long as my father reigns, you'd be in danger."

"It's all right. I know."

"It isn't all right, but even though I know what will happen once I'm king, I'm still not entirely sure what to do now, in the meantime. You deserve better from me."

Merlin is silent at this; he reaches down and touches his side with his fingertips, where Arthur had stabbed him.

"If it's any consolation, things are looking as though I will be king sooner rather than later," says Arthur. "Father is… not well."

"Is he sick? Dying?" Merlin's face shows only concern for his prince, and it warms Arthur to see it.

"No, not dying. But he often seems unaware of what is happening around him. Or uncaring. His fitness to rule is already being called into question. It's possible he may be forced to abdicate soon by the council. They would place me on the throne instead, while Father still lives."

Merlin grimaces in sympathy. "You don't think you're ready."

"I think I want to come into my rule cleanly, rather than being placed there by a council who will expect me to be beholden to them for showing me favor," says Arthur. "But that doesn't matter right now. Right now, I'm more concerned about you."

"If you really want me back in Camelot—"

"I do."

"—then I can wait, I suppose. Maybe go back to Ealdor, or somewhere that you can find me easily."

"Actually I was talking about more pressing things, Merlin. I'm concerned about _you._ When was the last time you ate a real meal, hm? Or had a bath? Do the druids even bathe?"

Merlin glares, and it does Arthur's heart good to see that he's still got a spark of fire inside him somewhere. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't insult the people who saved my life," he says.

"I didn't intend insult," Arthur reassures him. "But it's clear you haven't been taking care of yourself. I know part of that is that you're recovering from what I did, but part of it is just that you've let yourself go. You can't tell me these people have been willing to just let you skip all your meals, hm?"

The other man sighs and deflates a little. "They've tried. I just haven't been very… accommodating, I suppose."

Arthur nudges him with his shoulder. "I'm not the only one to worry about you," he says quietly. "Gwaine came for me so I could talk sense into you. That Nesta woman, she healed you, and I know how Gaius can be with his patients if he thinks they're not taking care of themselves. Tell me she hasn't been the same."

"They're all concerned about offending Emrys," says Merlin with a frown. "They've said a few things, but not much. They don't push. Not like you or Gaius would."

"Well, then, I'm pushing now. Up you get," he says, pushing off the pallet to stand over Merlin. He holds out a hand and waits. "Come on. You know I'm only going to nag you until you do."

"I'd like it recorded somewhere that you admit you're a nag," says Merlin, but he puts his hand in Arthur's and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. He winces and puts one hand to his side, and Arthur immediately reaches to steady him.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." At Arthur's skeptical look, he softens a little. "I _am_ fine, really. It's just tender, still. Nesta did what she could, but her sorcery isn't really very strong."

"But you can walk all right?"

"I have a stick…" Merlin looks around the tent, then holds his hand out. A staff that Arthur hadn't noticed before flies into his grasp. At Arthur's sharp intake of breath, he ducks his head as if embarrassed. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"No, it's all right," says Arthur. "I just wasn't expecting… you said before that you didn't want to practice sorcery anymore."

Merlin wraps his hands around the staff and looks away. "Can't really stop, I don't think," he says quietly. "Even when I want to. Even when I'm asleep. It just comes out on its own if I don't try to use it deliberately."

Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder again and squeezes, trying to find the right words. "You shouldn't have to hide your gift," he says tentatively. "This is… this is who you are, and you shouldn't have to hide who you are."

"Arthur?"

He frowns, and tries again. "I've… you know I'm fond of you," he starts.

Merlin snorts. "You know I did hear you say I'm your closest friend."

"It's true," Arthur concedes. "And I need you, to keep me sane, to remind me of when I'm being an ass. But I think I need… all of you, not just the non-magical parts of you. Don't get me wrong; I don't want you to think I only care about how useful the magic could be, or any nonsense like that. I valued you before I knew about the magic. You know that, right?"

Merlin's smile is small, but it's fond. "Yeah. I mean, you denied it often enough, but I didn't believe any of that. There's what you say and then there's what you do. It's why I couldn't fathom how you could… well. We've been over that."

Arthur nods. "I just wanted you to know, I won't expect you to, to pretend that you're not magical, just to make me feel more comfortable," he says. "I don't want you to have to lie about who you are, just because I'm not used to the idea of a sorcerer who isn't trying to kill me." He tries a smile, and when Merlin doesn't seem upset, he plows on. "I know you don't believe in this destiny business or the prophecy. And that's fine; I've never been the greatest believer in fate or destiny either. But I don't…I just don't think you should give up your magic."

Merlin is still for a moment, then he nods thoughtfully. "I'm—the druids think I'm made of magic," he says in a hush. "I'm not like other sorcerers. I didn't study it. I was born with magic, Arthur. I'm not sure I can give it up, even if I want to. And until you came back for me, I did want to."

"But not now?" he presses.

Merlin sighs, and begins to move toward the tent entrance. "Someone has to keep you from getting killed by the magical threat of the week," he says, and Arthur laughs in relief.

* * *

 

The druid woman, Nesta, practically lights up when Merlin and Arthur make their appearance, and Arthur is left to wonder just how long Merlin has shut himself away from them. "It is good to see you up," she says kindly. "Are you in any pain?"

"It's still tender," says Merlin, "but not really, no."

"I am glad. Would you care for something to eat?"

Merlin hesitates, but then catches Arthur looking at him with what he probably calls Arthur's _do it or it's the stocks for you_ expression. "I suppose I could have a little something, after I've cleaned up," he says after a pause.

The druid woman nods decisively. "I'll find you clean clothing to change into."

"You don't have to," Merlin tries, but Nesta is not having it.

"Nonsense," she says. "It will do you no good to bathe in the river if you are only going to put on dirty clothing again."

Merlin still looks reluctant until Arthur says, "Listen to your healer, Merlin, and do what she says. I know you never listen to _me_ , but you do listen to Gaius when he's talking sense."

"All right, fine," Merlin sighs, and Arthur resists the urge to gloat. "I just didn't want to put you to any trouble."

"You are awake and walking again," says Nesta, sounding to Arthur almost as motherly as Hunith. "Your recovery is no trouble to me whatsoever."

"If you say so."

"That's right," says Arthur, "if she says so."

"You think you're helping," mutters Merlin.

"Oh, I know I am."

"If you wish to continue to help," says Nesta, "you could assist Merlin down to the grotto and back."

"That's a bit of a switch," says Gwaine, walking up to join them. "You bathing your servant instead of the other way 'round."

"I don't _bathe_ Arthur!" Merlin protests. "And he's not going to bathe me. I can wash myself just fine."

Gwaine only grins. "It's good to have you back, my friend."

At this, Merlin's glare fades and he glances down, subdued. "I dunno that I'm back from anywhere," he says. "But I guess it's no good to just lie there and rot, is it?"

"That's the spirit," says Gwaine, and Arthur looks at him incredulously. "D'you need help besides Arthur's arm, or should I bugger off and fetch us something to eat for the night's stew?"

"Bugger off, Gwaine," says Arthur. The other man just chuckles and claps Merlin gently on the shoulder.

"I'll be back before you know it," he says. "Just like being on a quest, aye?"

"Hopefully fewer wyverns this time," Merlin replies.

* * *

 

The stream is near camp, and there's a well-traveled path to a place where the trees and bank overhang the water, leaving a deep, shaded pool where the current eddies a bit before continuing on. There is a rock shelf where Arthur sees someone has left a lump of soap, and more stones placed in a rough staircase down to the water. Arthur sets Merlin's staff aside and helps him out of his sleep tunic and breeches. Merlin moves slowly and winces now and again.

"Look at the state of you," Arthur says once he's naked. Merlin blushes a little, but Arthur only continues. "You're skin and bones! I know you were sick for a while, but that's no excuse to go off your feed entirely. If you were a horse I'd be considering whether or not it'd be kinder to put you down."

"You already considered that," says Merlin, grimacing as he moves gingerly down the steps. It's darker humor than Arthur is really used to hearing from Merlin, and might not even be humor at all.

"I mean it," he says, plowing on anyway. "You've got to build your strength back up."

"Gwaine and Nesta say the same thing," Merlin confesses. "I just didn't see the point before now."

"If I have to order you to eat something, I will," Arthur warns.

"I never listen to your orders, you know that." Merlin ducks his head under the water before Arthur can reply. He comes up and sweeps his hair out of his eyes, the drops clinging and dripping from his new beard. "But yes, to shut you up I'll at least try to finish my supper. All right?"

"It's a start," Arthur sniffs.

He props himself up along the stairs as Merlin scrubs himself clean. The silence is companionable, even if Arthur is used to Merlin prattling on rather than keeping his mouth shut.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" Merlin finally asks. His back is to Arthur and he's hunched over, working on his feet. "That I didn't have to be Emrys?"

"I think a man chooses his own destiny," says Arthur. "If you being by my side means the druids get to come up with special names for you, then so be it. But if it were up to me, I'd ignore the prophecies in favor of you just doing what you prefer. I'm not going to judge you based on who you're _supposed_ to be, according to some ancient legend."

Merlin pauses in his cleaning. "I'd prefer to be your friend," he says. "I don't know how to do that when I can't return to Camelot…"

"You will someday," Arthur interjects.

"…but it's what I want. I suppose in the meantime I can just write you letters or something."

"Or something," Arthur agrees. "We'll figure something out."

"I'm supposed to protect you, according to the stories," says Merlin. "And it's true that you attract trouble like no one I've ever seen. I'm surprised you lasted even three weeks without me by your side."

"I didn't. Remember that wild boar? Your magic saved my life, and you weren't even there."

"I guess you're making my point for me," says Merlin. "Emrys protects the Once and Future King. I protect you."

"I like to think I can protect myself, but Gaius has already pointed out to me the error of my assumptions."

"Oh, you're a formidable warrior," Merlin reassures him. "If it can be defeated with a sword, there's no one better to face it down. But there are some things a sword can't defeat."

"And that's where I need you," says Arthur.

"It's where you need magic, anyway."

"No. It's where I need you. You specifically. Emrys or not."

Merlin looks over his shoulder skeptically. "You said you didn't want to just accept my magic because it was useful to you."

"There's more to the threats I face than just things to kill with a sword or things to kill with sorcery," Arthur explains. "I was an arrogant ass before you came along. You and Gwen helped me grow out of that. You help remind me that I don't have to follow slavishly in my father's footsteps without evaluating where that path might lead. You make me think. You warn me of threats and intrigues I'd never hear about otherwise. Gaius says you knew about Morgana's treachery before anyone else."

Merlin turns back around so that Arthur can't see his face. "I was the one to push her onto that path," he says quietly.

Arthur shakes his head, even though Merlin cannot see it. "She made her own choices. I'm not saying you haven't done things that you regret—Gaius told me about those, too—but you've only ever acted in the best interests of Camelot. Morgana acts in the best interests of herself, and vengeance. There's a world of difference, and you're not responsible for that."

Merlin takes a deep breath; Arthur watches his shoulders rise, and then drop. "No, I suppose not," he says quietly. "All right, then."

"All right, what?"

"All right… I think we can be friends again. And if that means I'm the one the prophecies choose as Emrys, then… then so be it, I suppose," he sighs. "But the burden of destiny—I still want no part of it."

"Nor should you," says Arthur. "I refuse to believe that the things that have happened to you are part of some grand plan, some punishment for straying from my side or part of some preordained path. Our choices always have consequences; something my father has taught me from a young age."

"Well for you, yeah, you're going to be the king," Merlin points out.

"And you're going to be my chief adviser, probably." Merlin whirls, flailing, splashing in the grotto as he loses his balance, and Arthur just smiles. "Don't act so surprised. Who else would I name?"

"Uh, an _adviser_ , maybe?" Merlin retorts. "One of your nobles? Arthur, I'm your _manservant_."

"Please, most of the nobles in my father's council have never had to face the consequences of their actions in their entire lives. Spoiled by privilege, every last one of them. _You_ , on the other hand, know what it means to carry the weight of your decisions on your shoulders. You know what it means to labor for Camelot without hope of glory or reward. That's not why you do it. You understand duty probably better than I do, Merlin."

"I'm standing here _naked_ , three weeks after you _stabbed_ me, and you're talking to me about becoming your _chief adviser_ ," Merlin says slowly. "Are you _out of your head_? Or am I?" He adds, pressing one hand to his forehead. "Am I still in a fever and hallucinating?"

Arthur can't help the laugh that escapes him. "I could duck you under the water and prove that you're not," he offers.

Merlin slaps the water and splashes him from ten feet away.


	20. Chapter 20

Merlin's reemergence from his tent seems to have cheered the entire druid camp, or at least shown them that they don't need to fear Arthur. When the two of them return from the river, there are several of the bolder children peeking out from behind tent flaps, and a few of the adults are laying wood in the central fire pit. They watch Arthur as he passes, but at least one of them makes eye contact with him, and gives him a nod before turning back to her work.

A child comes bouncing up to them, holding his hands out as if offering something. He says nothing, just looks at Merlin with wide eyes and a hopeful expression. Merlin, for his part, looks a little uncomfortable, especially when he glances around the clearing. Arthur follows his gaze and sees that all the work in the central ring has stopped, and that everyone is watching them, either overtly or surreptitiously.

Merlin sighs, and offers a tired smile, but cups his hands around the little boy's. "All right, Tegan," he says softly, and then his eyes flash gold.

Arthur can't help the swift intake of breath: the last time he'd seen such a thing, he'd lashed out in battle and nearly destroyed his closest friend.

Merlin notices, of course he does, and glances at Arthur with eyes that rapidly fade to blue. Aloud, though, all he says is, "Open your hands, Tegan."

The boy does, and a butterfly escapes, flitting up and away into the air. Tegan's expression is one of open wonder, and then he grins and runs away.

In an instant, more children appear from seemingly nowhere—out of tents, from behind trees, and who knows where else—and begin clamoring for Merlin's attention. "Do it to me!" "Butterfly!" "My turn, my turn!"

"Show us your magic, Emrys!" lisps one little girl, and the others around her hold out their hands and hop up and down.

Merlin is visibly surprised by the reaction at first, but then he grins, and out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Nesta relax. Had she been worried about Merlin's response? Have the children asked him to perform sorcery before this?

There is a part of Arthur's mind that is unsure how to process that these children are so _unafraid_ of what Merlin might do. They are druids, yes, and he knew that intellectually, but to see their comfort with magic so visibly demonstrated stirs something in Arthur that he cannot name. A bit of unease, a bit of sadness, a bit of wonder, perhaps. How different his own life could have been, if his father had not taught Arthur to hate and fear magic, and had shown him this side of it instead.

Merlin leans on his staff and hobbles forward, and the children part to let him sit on one of the fallen logs that make up benches around the fire pit. Gwaine is there already, having appeared at the same time as the children. He has three of them climbing on him and giggling uncontrollably while he roars like a bear and pretends to be angry about it. This seems to be a cue for the other families in the camp that it's safe, because by the time Arthur has walked over to stand behind Merlin, the ring has begun to fill with people, bringing baskets of fruit and vegetables and bread with them and spreading blankets in front of the log benches.

Their leader, Derwen, approaches them with a smile. "It is good to see you, Emrys," she says. Merlin's face falls a little, probably at being called that, but he nods politely enough. "We would like to celebrate your recovery. Would you be willing to do the honors?" She sweeps one hand gracefully back to indicate the pile of firewood and kindling. It won't quite make a bonfire, but it will still be a respectable blaze.

"Erm," says Merlin. He glances up at Arthur a little tentatively, and Arthur frowns back at him.

"You don't need _my_ permission," he says.

"That's a first," snorts Merlin. Arthur almost smacks him on the back of the head, but figures the druids would likely have a collective fit if he showed disrespect to their mythical savior. He folds his arms instead and just waits, until one corner of Merlin's mouth quirks up. He turns back around, looking at the pile of wood, and holds one hand out in the gesture that Arthur has seen from countless other sorcerers. Then he murmurs something that Arthur recognizes from the spell book: " _Forbearnan_ ," and the wood catches immediately.

"'A knack for it'," scoffs Arthur, teasing. "Do you even carry flint and steel anymore?"

"'Course I do," replies Merlin. "It'd look suspicious if I didn't." Arthur grimaces, knowing it's true and regretting all the lengths Merlin has had to go to in order to protect himself, in ways great and small. "But yeah, I can start a fire even when it's raining, and keep it lit if I have to."

"Handy, that," calls Gwaine, right before toppling over and being buried under a pile of children. In a moment, he roars again and shoves himself to his feet, sending druid kids tumbling, laughing and squealing the entire way.

* * *

 

It's late; the food has been eaten and the little ones are all packed off to bed. The golden blaze from before has settled down to blue flames and pink embers, still warm even this far away from it. A few of the druids have paired off and are cuddling on the other side of the fire, and an older man is playing music on a stringed instrument while another woman sings, a plaintive chant that stirs Arthur's heart if he listens too long or too closely.

Merlin looks more relaxed than Arthur has seen him in a long time; he has shown off his magic for the kids by making shapes in the sparks and smoke, or creating butterflies that Arthur thought were illusion, but which had even the druid elders' faces alight with awe. Gwaine's antics had made Merlin smile, and even laugh once or twice. He's been a little quieter than usual, but even so, it's hard to tell that he was so profoundly depressed only earlier that day.

The druids, while still understandably shy of Arthur, have nonetheless done their best to make him welcome. He's had conversation with several of them, even if they stuck to safe topics like hunting and the predictions for the harvest and coming winter. Arthur learned that the druids are nomads, but that they do have preferred spaces that they will return to again and again over the years, or safe havens where they can wait out the winter. Arthur had known better than to ask them for any specifics.

Earlier, he had turned away from one such conversation to see the druid elder, Derwen, sitting with Merlin. She had held his hands in hers and leaned forward as if in earnest conversation, but no words were exchanged. Instead, they had stared into one another's eyes intently; it was enough to make Arthur a little uncomfortable. He would almost have thought them to be acting like lovers, if it were not for the difference in their ages and the expressions on their faces. Derwen had looked worried, while Merlin had sat a bit stiffly, seeming as uncomfortable as Arthur felt.

That was a while ago, though; now, however, Derwen is approaching Arthur, her face the very picture of kindness.

"Emrys will leave us one day," she says. "But now I know that you will take care of him."

"I'll do my best," he replies.

"Two halves of one coin," says Derwen, and Arthur can't recall where he's heard that phrase before, or even _if_ he has, but it seems familiar all the same. "So long as you are together, Albion has nothing to fear."

Arthur's not really sure whether she knows about the coming eclipse or not, or if she and the other druids are even aware of just how much of a threat Morgana poses. Still, he says diplomatically, "I hope you are right," and relaxes inwardly as she smiles.

"I bid you goodnight, Arthur Pendragon; I am afraid these bones are not as young as they once were. Good dreams to you."

It's not really a farewell Arthur has heard in court before, so he feels a little awkward as he replies, "And to you."

She doesn't bow as she turns to go, but he doesn't really expect or need her to, either. She smiles in approval, and that is more than enough.

He sits down beside Merlin with a sigh of contentment. Merlin looks at him in amusement. "You ate well, I see," he says. "That's the sound you always make after a good meal."

"You ate at all," retorts Arthur, smiling wider when Merlin is unable to come up with a good comeback. He nudges the other man with his shoulder. "It was good to see."

"Nesta certainly approved," he admits wryly. He sighs. "I just… it didn't seem worth the effort, before."

"Before I came back."

"Don't get a swelled head about it," Merlin tries, but Arthur waves that off.

"No. I shouldn't have left you in the first place. The other knights' opinions be damned."

"That's… kind of you to say."

They're saved from further awkwardness by Gwaine, who plops down on the long on Merlin's other side and holds out a small wineskin. "Good for what ails ya," he says, waggling it a little when Merlin doesn't immediately take it. Arthur rescues him, jerking the flask out of Gwaine's hand and taking a quick sip. Whatever it is, it's not wine, and burns all the way down. Arthur's eyes are watering and he holds back a cough and wheeze for breath only through sheer force of will.

"What the hell is that?"

"The druids call it 'Water of Life', and claim they were taught how to make it by their fellows who live up beyond Northumbria. Keeps them warm in the winter. You should try some, Merlin," he adds with a grin.

"Oh, no, not for me. I don't really—"

"All those times Gaius said you were in the tavern, you weren't really, were you?" asks Arthur. He already knows the answer to this, of course, but wants to needle his friend, just a little, just to see how he'll react.

Merlin clears his throat. "Ah. No."

"That explains how you could be gone all the time and still get drunk on half a glass of wine, at least."

"Half a glass?" asks Gwaine. "We'll have to build up your tolerance, my friend."

"Really a bad idea," says Merlin. "Have you ever seen a drunken sorcerer? Do you know what magic can be like when it's not properly controlled?"

"Merlin does magic in his sleep," puts in Arthur. "I don't think we want to see him suddenly decide to prove that he can fly."

"Spoilsports, the pair of you," says Gwaine, but he lets it go, taking the skin back from Arthur and swallowing a generous mouthful of the 'water' before grimacing at the burn. "Quite the craft they have, these druids," he says. Then, out of nowhere, he asks, "Have you told him about Morgana, yet?"

"What?" Merlin sits up straight, reminding Arthur of a deer that has suddenly scented the hounds. "What about Morgana?"

"That's a no, then," says Gwaine. Arthur could just about strangle him, considering he was the one who said it would be a bad idea to broach the topic.

Still, Merlin is looking at Arthur as though he were the one keeping secrets, so Arthur sighs and puts him out of his misery. "It's nothing I wanted to bother you with," he says. "When Gwaine was on his way to find me, he crossed paths with a druid from another tribe, who warned him that Morgana might be on the move in the next few months."

"That's… awfully vague," says Merlin.

"Something to do with an eclipse," Gwaine puts in helpfully.

"Enough, Sir Gwaine," Arthur growls, and something in his tone or on his face must finally get through to the drunken lout, because he subsides with another swig of liquor and slides down until he's sitting on the ground, slouched against the log and staring into the dying flames. His head is still tilted, though, one ear toward the pair of them, and Arthur knows he isn't done listening to their conversation. Arthur sighs again before meeting Merlin's eyes. "You had told Gwaine you didn't want to use your magic ever again," he explains. "And I didn't want you to think I was interested in turning you into some sort of weapon for Camelot. And we're neither of us interested in prophecy or destiny, right?"

"Right," says Merlin. "But… it doesn't feel as if my magic has any other purpose but to protect you, anymore. I didn't want to use it because there didn't seem to be any point, with you gone."

"And now?"

"And now, you don't hate me, and you claim you still need me. I'm still your servant, Arthur, if you'll have me. My magic is—well, no, it's not _yours_ to command, because you're right, I won't be your weapon when I can be so many other things too. But I'm at your disposal."

Arthur nods. "All right, then. And thank you."

Merlin smiles slowly, then ducks his head. "Not something I ever expected to hear you say," he replies. "You great prat."

"Idiot," says Arthur, and bumps him with his shoulder. When Merlin bumps him back, he continues, "Do you want to hear about Morgana's plan, or not?"

"Yes, sire," Merlin replies, and the resolve in his voice is music to Arthur's ears.

"Gwaine, I know you haven't passed out from drink yet."

The man opens his eyes and glances at them sidelong. "Haven't even reached the wobbly stage, Princess."

"Tell Merlin what that druid told you."

So Gwaine does, bringing mystic bits in about the balance of the cosmos and pendulums, and how one madwoman just might be able to throw everything out of kilter, unless one bumbling warlock happens to be in the right place to stop her.

"My understanding was, you're stuffed so full of magic that you wouldn't even need to fight her for control of the pendulum," says Gwaine as he finishes. "This druid seemed to think that just you being there would be enough to stop her… or at least, to keep things on the path that they're already on now."

"Almost sounds too easy," says Merlin. "Nothing is ever easy, where Morgana is concerned."

"Too true," Arthur puts in. "But I wouldn't order any of my knights to stand against her, knowing the power she wields. I'm not going to demand it of you, either; but I will ask. Can you defeat her, if it comes down to it?"

Merlin pauses, giving the question its due consideration, before he answers. "I'm stronger than her," he says finally, "but she's been trained in ways that I haven't. Morgause was a high priestess of the Old Religion. All I had was a spell book that Gaius found somewhere, and I don't even have that anymore."

"Yes, you do," says Arthur. "I brought it with me."

"You what?" Merlin is gaping at him in pleased astonishment.

"I told Gaius I wanted to understand. He let me read the entire thing. I know you can't return to Camelot yet, but I thought you might still get some use out of it here."

"Yeah," Merlin breathes, still visibly stunned. "Yeah, I can—Arthur, I know it's only one book, but it's still more than I had before."

"Between that and the druids," says Gwaine, "you've got just as much chance at training, _real_ training, as Morgana has gotten. More, maybe; she had a year with Morgause, aye? You'll have druids lining up to teach you, if you only ask." He sits upright and turns to face them, one arm draped across his knee. "You know they'd be honored to help Emrys."

"I don't want to take advantage of their belief," says Merlin. "Especially since I'm not sure I _am_ Emrys anymore."

"How about this, then: You take care of what needs taking care of, and let _them_ decide if you're their savior or not." Gwaine leans forward, his voice low but his expression more intent than Arthur has seen it outside of battle. "It's not up to you anyway, right? If there's a prophecy, that doesn't force you to do anything. It just means you make your own choices, and maybe you happen to fit the description or what some Seer dreamed, ages ago. Maybe you don't. Maybe you're close enough no one will care. Either way, you're damn strong and only half-trained, and take it from two fighters, Merlin," Gwaine gestures between him and Arthur, "half-trained is when a man is most dangerous, to himself and others."

Merlin nods thoughtfully. "I've already told Derwen that I don't think I'm Emrys, but if they still want to teach me, I'll take it," he decides. "I'll need all the help I can get to face Morgana and the… the balance of the universe."

"So you'll do it?" Arthur presses. "You're with me?"

"I'll do it. And I'm always with you, Arthur. Don't ever doubt that." He takes a deep breath and blows it out suddenly. "No pressure or anything, right?"

And Arthur, in his relief, can't help but laugh.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, and feels a little weird or off to me somehow. I hope you all like it anyway.

Arthur makes ready to leave the next day. He wants to stay, wants to help Merlin somehow, or keep him safe while he trains with the druids, even though he knows how absurd that is. The fact remains, he has duties in Camelot, and he has information that could protect the kingdom, if he acts on it quickly. If he or his men can find out where Morgana means to stage her ritual, or any other plans, it could mean thousands of lives saved.

Merlin, as far as the magic goes, seems to be able to take care of himself.

"I'll be fine," he says, then trips over a tree root and hisses as the motion pulls at his injury.

"Idiot. You're not fine now."

"I've got Gwaine, and Nesta, and Derwen, and everyone else to look after me," he says, and Arthur knows it's true. Already, he looks better than he did the day before, with more life in his eyes and more energy to his expressions. "My only worry right now is that you haven't got anyone to look after you."

"I'm the prince, Merlin," says Arthur.

"Yes, exactly, you're the prince. You shouldn't travel back to Camelot on your own," Merlin insists. "You're a target, and you don't have magic to protect you from anything Morgana might try. If she finds out you're alone…"

"I'll take Gwaine with me, then; will that satisfy you?"

Merlin sighs. "No, not really. But it'll have to do."

In the end, two other druids agree to travel with Arthur back to Camelot. It's more than a little weird, and more than a little annoying, to think that these people see him as a helpless damsel needing an escort. But the two druids both have magic and are risking a lot, just out of trust in Merlin that Arthur won't betray them.

The trip back is still strange. The druids may as well not be there, for their distance from Arthur and Gwaine. They don't give their names, they refuse to enter the town or sleep in the tavern, and on the road, they keep to the trees rather than risk being seen. It's only the sensation of being watched that lets Arthur know that they are there at all. But they've agreed to provide Arthur with magical protection, should he need it. He can't really begrudge them their caution, given where they're going and whom they're guarding.

* * *

 

In the end, the precautions prove unnecessary; Gwaine and Arthur don't meet anyone on the road, and the trip is entirely uneventful, at least as far as Gwaine can tell. Perhaps the druids prevented them from being spied upon, or scared off magical creatures, or did something else that was unnoticeable from where he and Arthur were.

"I suppose here is where we part ways, then," says Gwaine, as they approach the citadel. "Unless you want me stirring up trouble with the other knights."

"No," says Arthur. "No, I need you to watch over Merlin. Keep him safe."

Gwaine smiles. "You realize he sent me along to keep watch over _you_."

"Yes, well," Arthur grumps, "get used to frequent travel, then, in the coming months."

"Count on it, Princess," says Gwaine easily. "Someone will have to carry the letters back and forth, after all."

Arthur doesn't have anything to say to that, at first, only blushes a little, and Gwaine almost rolls his eyes. It's so hard for the princess to admit that he and Merlin are friends, or that he could be friends with anyone else if only he got that stick out of his arse. Ah, well. That's not Gwaine's concern. Merlin is.

"What will you tell the others about him?" he asks.

Arthur looks away toward the citadel, and sighs. "I'm not sure," he replies, "but I'll have to tell them something. Some of them, at least. Morgana is on the move, and we all need to prepare."

"True enough."

* * *

 

Gwaine tells Arthur that he'll set up at the Rising Sun for the night, and Arthur makes sure to send him a hefty purse full of his back pay plus a bonus, and a fresh horse for the road.

* * *

 

Later that night, Lancelot knocks on Arthur's door, stepping inside cautiously and closing the door behind him.

"What brings you here, Lancelot?"

"I wanted to ask how Merlin is doing," the other man admits, lowering his gaze to the floor for a second. "I know you didn't want us to discuss what happened in the forest that day, but I am also sure that Gwaine was here on Merlin's behalf." He visibly braces himself before he looks back at Arthur. "Merlin was my first friend in Camelot, sire. I need to know how he is."

Arthur considers for a moment whether or not to answer. "Recovering," he finally says, watching Lancelot's shoulders drop in relief. "He took a fever from the wound, but Gwaine was able to get him to the druids in time. He was up and walking while I was there." He'd been in complete despair before that, but Lancelot doesn't need to know that.

"That is a relief to hear," says Lancelot, but then his shoulders go tense again. "I… also have something I should confess, sire: I already knew of Merlin's magic before the bandit attack."

Arthur takes a sharp breath and stares at him. "He told you?" are the first words to come to mind, after far too long shoving down the upwelling of emotion that threatens.

"No, sire," says Lancelot. "The griffin that attacked Camelot, when I first came here, was a magical creature; it could only be killed with magic. Merlin enchanted my lance to do the job. He was… not subtle about it, for all that I'm sure he wished he could be. He had to shout the spell several times to make it work, and it caused my weapon to glow blue in the night. He tried to deny having anything to do with it, until I told him his secret was safe with me."

Arthur releases the breath he had been holding. "Idiot," he says with feeling, because the entire thing sounds just like Merlin. "It's a _miracle_ he hasn't been caught before now."

"He has indeed been very lucky, until just recently." It's a rebuke, a gentle one, but Arthur takes the hit nonetheless.

"Yes. Quite," he says, shuffling some papers on his desk.

"What happened, sire… it wasn't precisely your fault," says Lancelot.

"No one else stabbed him," Arthur reminds him.

"True, sire, but it was the heat of battle. A freak accident—or, it might be better to say a freak set of circumstances. You'd never have harmed Merlin deliberately, even if you had found out about his magic some other way."

"I like to think that's true," Arthur sighs. "We'll never know now." He waves Lancelot to a seat and joins him, reaching for the pitcher of wine at the other end of his table.

"Has Merlin forgiven you?" Lancelot asks shrewdly, before sitting. "Or it is that you have yet to forgive yourself?"

"What I did was unforgivable," says Arthur. "My father would have had me murder a man who has saved my life more times than I can count. And there are those among my knights who do not trust me now, because I didn't."

"There are also those among the knights who trust you more, because they know you will take a man's deeds into account as well as the law, before deciding his fate."

Arthur sighs. "Merlin is something of a special case," he says. "Always has been. Worst servant in the Five Kingdoms, and yet I keep him around."

Lancelot smiles. "He is your friend, and he saved your life. You are allowed to consider those things when judging whether or not to spare his."

Arthur nods and reaches for his wine. It's a good vintage, and he takes a moment to savor it before he speaks again. "My father would have him dead in an instant," he says quietly. "I cannot bring him back to Camelot."

"It was a miracle that he allowed Gwaine and myself to return," Lancelot agrees.

"He needed men," says Arthur sourly. "I'll never be able to convince him that he needs Merlin."

"But you plan to bring him back when you are king?"

"I do. But when I brought it up to Merlin, he made some valid points. I'd have to overturn the law against magic; otherwise, he and his skills would be Camelot's dirty little secret. He'd have to hide who he is, even though the knights would already know of his magic. He fears he would be despised, and unable to defend himself without being retaliated against."

Lancelot nods. "And yet, changing the law for one man…"

"I know." Arthur sighs and reaches again for his goblet. "At least my father won't be around to stop me," he says bitterly. All his hopes and plans for Merlin, for the kingdom, are predicated on the death of Arthur's own father, because even if Uther abdicates, as long as he lives Arthur will never be able to repeal the ban.

"It's a heavy burden you carry, sire," says Lancelot, with sympathy in his eyes. "But I for one am glad that it is you who carries it."

* * *

 

The next day, Arthur attends council and reports Mercia's influence over the bandits that had attacked Arthur's men, nearly a month ago now, but recommends that they take no immediate action against the other kingdom. "We have a treaty with Bayard," he says. "There is no proof that he sent the bandits directly to Camelot as mercenaries, and in any case, there is a greater threat looming on the horizon."

"Morgana," says one of the councilors. Arthur does not miss the way his voice drops to a hush and he looks over his shoulder, as if he thinks the sorceress might appear at the mention of her name. All these men are afraid of what she can do.

"Indeed." Arthur places his hands on the table and tells the council what he's learned from Gwaine, about the eclipse and Morgana's plan to use magic to overthrow Camelot. He leaves out the bits about fate and destiny, not sure these men would grasp it—or rather, if they would be suspicious of the source of such information—and emphasizes their need to search for where Morgana might stage her ritual. "I cannot begin to fathom how a woman thinks," he concludes, "but I knew Morgana. She may wish to distract us from her magic with a more mundane attack on the citadel."

"You think she will raise an army against us, as a kind of decoy?" asks a councilor.

"I think it possible," Arthur says with a nod. "My informant claimed that there was no guarantee that a single sorceress could succeed at this ritual, and that other magic users might even try to stop her. The Old Religion," he adds, to their shocked faces. "What she intends to do would 'upset the balance', or something like that. I am no expert on the Old Religion, of course, but it is reasonable to assume that there are those whose ways are peaceful who would not wish her to succeed."

"You're talking of the druids," says one man, spluttering. "Your father—"

"My father would be the first to remind us that druids are not to be trusted," says Arthur firmly, and the man freezes, eyes wide. Carefully, Arthur continues, "I am not entirely certain I believe, as he does, that the druids conspire against Camelot; however, I know better than to assume we may rely on them to stop the threat Morgana poses. Camelot must face Morgana on our own, and that means preparing as many defenses as possible."

"Are you…" The councilors are looking at one another nervously, and the one speaking even has sweat beading at his temples. "Sire, forgive me if I am mistaken, but… are you suggesting we seek _magical_ solutions to this problem?"

Arthur notes the councilors whose faces show barely concealed hope, the older men who might remember what life in Camelot was like before the Purge. He does not call attention to them, however, only saying, "I am suggesting that we prepare for an army to attack us as a cover or a 'Plan B' to Morgana's initial gambit. In addition, I am strongly recommending that we make use of Camelot's scouts and informants to alert us to Morgana's whereabouts, if at all possible, so that we might be able to stop her ritual before it starts."

The councilor sighs in visible relief, and men around the table nod. Arthur is unsure whether they were expecting him to rage about magic, as Uther would have done, or to have the man executed for daring to utter the word "magic" at all.

The fact that some of these men look as though they were holding out _hope_ for Arthur to rescind his father's policies… well, that's very interesting indeed, and something Arthur is going to keep in mind in the future.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is coming really quickly after the previous chapter, but I was on a roll and the words were flowing, so here you are.

Once Gwaine is out of sight of the lower town, he finds the two druid men waiting for him by the side of the road. Arawn is one of them, but he's not been introduced to the other.

"The prince is safe?" he asks.

"Aye," says Gwaine. "Or he was last night, last we spoke. I didn't go back to the barracks. Didn't want to raise a fuss." He shrugs. "Didn't see him this morning."

"It is well enough," says Arawn. "Come, away from the road, and we will return home more quickly."

"Away from the road?" Gwaine asks, but he nudges his horse easily enough and follows them into the trees.

"It is not good to be seen, doing what we will do," says the other druid. He has a northern accent, and Gwaine wonders if he's a member of a different tribe. How much contact do the various camps keep with one another? As an outsider, he'll probably never know.

They lead Gwaine deeper into the woods for about an hour, looking over their shoulders periodically, and take turns doing something that makes their eyes flash gold briefly. "Erasing our tracks," explains Arawn. "And covering our scent. If your prince changes his mind, it will be harder for him to hunt us."

"Arthur is an honorable man," says Gwaine. It's a little odd to hear himself say that about another noble, but it's true.

"He may be," says the second druid. "But he lives in the shadow of his father. We will be cautious."

Gwaine nods in understanding. "Of course."

Finally they reach a tiny clearing, barely large enough for a horse to squeeze through, with no room at all for the three men to stand. Gwaine stays in the saddle while the two druids crowd close.

"We are not as strong as Emrys," says the nameless druid from the north; then he smiles and the effect is startling, since he'd been so dour before. "No one is as strong as Emrys. But between the two of us, we have the strength to do what must be done."

"And what is it that must be done?" Gwaine asks.

"Heh. You will see."

While he is talking, Arawn pulls out a strip of cloth and weaves it into the horse's bridle, effectively blindfolding him. "Some animals take the magic better than others," he explains. "Horses are especially unpredictable. Best to cover their eyes and keep them still."

"I admit I'm feeling a bit skittish myself," says Gwaine. "Care to fill me in on what you're about to do?"

"We are taking a shorter path home," says the nameless druid. He shares a look with Arawn, and then the two men begin to chant, quietly, with one eye on the path behind Gwaine.

After a moment, the trees begin to… fade, for lack of a better term, going all gray and ghostly as if a sort of twilight were falling across the land. The ambient noise of birds and insects falls away to silence, until Gwaine's breath is the only sound he can hear. He finds himself reaching for the hilt of his sword, unnerved by the eeriness of what he is experiencing.

Arawn's hand, patting his leg, stops him. The other man looks just as gray as the trees around them, but solid, where now that Gwaine notices it, the trees are translucent. He can see through them as if they were made of smoke, and it makes him shiver in his saddle.

Arawn and the other man step forward, leading Gwaine's horse, and the smoke parts before them and dissipates. They are on a trail that Gwaine has never seen before, and where the world behaves strangely. Rather than walking normally, the druids seem to take a step and then pause, take a step and then pause, over and over again. When they are moving, the world around them blurs and distorts so that it is a little nauseating to look at, as if they are the only solid things to exist. When they pause, their surroundings seem to reform in different shapes: there is a boulder in the clearing, for example, or a stand of saplings that wasn't there before, or they are standing in the middle of a stream. Gwaine remembers something his mother once told him as a child, about how ghosts are the spirits of the dead who have not yet entirely left the land of the living. They walk and live _between_ the worlds of the living and the dead, she had told him. This, to Gwaine, seems as if he, and his horse, and the druids, are all walking between the worlds.

He wonders what would happen if they were to slip off their path, and shivers again.

After about a dozen such steps, the men happen across a line like a wisp of fog that hangs suspended in the air, glowing faintly, like a hot bit of wire in a forge except that it is blue instead of orange. It moves gently, though there is no breeze, undulating a bit like the surface of a lake. Its light lends no warmth to the gray silence around them, but the druids align themselves with it and step forward, and the world disappears once more. Now, however, the blue wisp stays with them, and Gwaine wonders if it is some sort of landmark that the druids use to travel by. It is there when the world reforms, and while its shape blurs each time they move, it hangs beside them nonetheless.

It is difficult for Gwaine to tell the passage of time, but he thinks it is about an hour before the two druids pause, and the world around them begins to take on color and sound once more. He listens to his breath, and after five exhalations he hears birdsong, and the rustle of the wind in the trees. A breeze brushes his cheek, and he realizes that he had felt nothing while on the druids' path between the worlds, either.

Arawn lets go of the horse's bridle and bends over, placing his hands on his knees, while the other druid staggers to a rotten tree stump and collapses onto it. Both men are panting for breath.

"Are you all right?" Gwaine asks, dismounting. He removes the blindfold from his horse's eyes, and the horse whickers and noses him for a treat, calm as always. He's a good horse; it's good to see he's unharmed by whatever they just did.

"It is difficult to carry passengers on those paths," says the second druid. "More so when they do not have magic, like yourself."

"Sorry," he offers, but the other man shakes his head and waves him off. "Where are we?"

"A little over halfway back to our home," says Arawn, and Gwaine does his best not to gape. A full day's travel, or more, and they've covered it in an hour. It's no wonder the druids have a reputation for elusiveness, when they can disappear from an area as quickly and completely as this. They'll have left no trace behind, either, Gwaine is almost certain.

"Quite a trick," he says, making no effort to keep the admiration from his voice. Arawn looks at him a little sidelong, but the second druid only laughs.

"We can't all do it," he explains. "And it's tiring to take too many with us at once. But yes, it comes in handy from time to time. Especially in Uther's kingdom."

"I can well imagine."

The druids are visibly tired, but not exhausted, so they walk the normal world for a few more hours until the afternoon sun is obscured by clouds.

Arawn squints up at the sky. "Look like rain to you, Conor?"

"Aye," replies the other druid. "Can smell it, too."

"Won't be long," nods Arawn. "Cave that way, up into the hills a bit."

They push their pace a little, and make it to a cave just as the first fat drops begin to fall from the sky. Gwaine's hair gets a little damp, but his clothing isn't wet enough to bother with, and the horse doesn't seem too fussed about it either. The hillside was steep and rocky, but the view from the cave mouth is spectacular.

Now the druids seem even more tired, moving slowly and stiffly as they lay out their bedrolls, and dropping things occasionally. They pause to rest often, until Gwaine asks Arawn if they're both all right.

"Travel like that takes much from a sorcerer's reserves, if he is not very strong to begin with. And your king did away with most of the strongest sorcerers long ago."

"He's not really my king," Gwaine says, not sure if it will matter to them. "I follow Arthur, same as Merlin does."

Conor only shrugs. "The answer to your question is that we will rest for the remainder of today, and travel the usual way tomorrow. We will be fine. It is kind of you to ask after us."

"We ordinarily reserve the secret paths for emergencies," explains Arawn, "but we wanted to be sure to get away from Camelot before we could be hunted. Now that it is safe, we will conserve our strength."

Gwaine decides that as the most refreshed of the three, he should be the one to gather firewood, and stands and stretches before stepping out. The hillside is just as steep as it looked on the way up, when he was still riding his horse, but there are trees and fallen branches enough, and he is able to find enough for a small cook fire in no time. It's a bit damp from the rain, but should still catch easily enough, especially if the druids have enough magic left in them to light it themselves. And if they don't, well, that's no great hardship in the summertime. Wouldn't be the first cold camp he's slept in.

* * *

 

Conor, at least, does have enough magic left to light the fire, and Gwaine sets to collecting rainwater in a pot so they'll have something to cook with once the embers are hot. He throws some dried vegetables into the water to soak, and a handful of beans. Arawn has fallen asleep already, and Conor seems content to watch while Gwaine manages the chores.

"Nesta and the others have offered to teach Merlin, once he recovers a bit more," says Gwaine.

"That's why I've come," says Conor. "It's good that the Pendragon was able to reach Emrys. His despair was a worry to us all."

"What, even up in Northumbria?" Gwaine jokes, but it falls flat at the look on Conor's face.

"Emrys is known throughout Albion," says the druid. "And even beyond, I'd wager, out into the continent and across the wide sea. There has never been and never will be a sorcerer with the raw power that he possesses. Destiny itself _bends_ wherever he walks."

And that's something to hear about young Merlin, to be sure, but… "He didn't seem to think so," remembers Gwaine. "He thought that destiny would have gone a bit easier on him, if he were really this Emrys person you all talk about."

Conor nods. "I do not claim to know the ways of destiny or fate," he says, "but I do know magic. And if you could see it as I do… well, the very air shimmers around him. Thick with it, like fog. I would not be surprised if he were to learn all that we have to teach him, and then go looking for more, like thirsty soil soaking up rain."

"Are you able to teach a man so much stronger than you?" Gwaine asks, genuinely curious.

"Everyone with magic must begin at the beginning. Your prince, he is skilled with the sword, yes? The best in Camelot, I've heard. The best in the Five Kingdoms, some would boast. And yet even he had to start with a wooden stick, and earn his bruises, and learn how not to trip over his own weapon." Conor shrugs, and sits up with a groan to toss another stick onto the fire. "That he eventually surpassed his masters does not change that."

"And you're sure that Merlin will surpass you."

Conor laughs again. "He already does! In some ways, at least. There are things he can do that should not be possible. And I have heard that he has been able to perform some of the simpler spells since he was a wee bairn. A child, you'd say… an infant, even. But it is likely that he is like a rider who learned to jump his horse without learning the basics of controlling his horse in any other setting. Or a swordsman who knows two or three very advanced moves, very impressive for the lassies, aye? But has no idea how to block a simple thrust. He will need to go backward and unlearn bad habits, fill in the gaps in his education, before he can move forward and refine what he already has."

And they only have three months until Morgana's eclipse will come. "Let's hope he's a good pupil, then," says Gwaine, and Conor nods.

* * *

 

The next day's travel is much less eventful, with Conor and Arawn avoiding their "secret paths" to travel overland. They still make good time, even with the accommodations they must make for Gwaine's horse, and they arrive at the camp only a couple of hours past noon.

"That was quick," remarks Merlin, leaning on his staff. Already there is more life to his face than Gwaine has seen in weeks. "I thought you'd be at least another day."

"I think the druids will have something to teach you about how we got here," says Gwaine as he dismounts. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Nesta said something about a thing called ley lines, that are like rivers of magic. They like to camp alongside them if they can."

A river of magic; that might be an apt description of the blue wisp that Gwaine saw while they traveled between the worlds. "Are we near one now, do you think?" he asks, and Merlin shrugs.

"The grotto where they bathe has a nice feel to it," he says, "but I don't really know anything more than that."

"Aye, well, today is the day you'll start to learn," says Conor, walking up to them with a sly grin on his face. "I am called Conor. Remember that name, lad. You'll probably want to know who it is to curse in his sleep, after I'm done with you."

Merlin looked at Gwaine, and then back to Conor, whose smile only grows wider. "Um. Nice to meet you?"

Conor laughs, and pats Merlin on the arm. "Come with me, then, if you're ready, and we'll get started."


	23. Chapter 23

The rain from the day before moves into the druid camp that afternoon, and Gwaine once again finds himself at loose ends. Conor had been polite but firm in his refusal to let Gwaine watch while he and Merlin practiced magic together.

"Most of what we will do for the next several days is not visible to the eye," he'd explained. "Not only would there be nothing for you to see, but there is a chance you could distract my student and he could endanger himself."

"Emrys will learn to see with his inner eye," Nesta had added, after Conor and Merlin left. "He has already told you that he can feel the presence of some magical energies; we will teach him to be more sensitive, and to read what he senses so that he is better able to tell, for example, if an object carries a malicious enchantment or a beneficial one. Or perhaps even to tell who placed the enchantment, if he is familiar with their magic."

"Sounds useful," Gwaine had allowed.

"It will be, once he gains the knack for it. But to you, it will appear as if he and Conor are merely sitting with their eyes closed. They will use the Silent Speech to communicate most of the time."

"I see."

* * *

 

So now Gwaine is sitting in the tent they'd given him and Merlin, listening to the rain patter on the roof, whittling at a stick and making a mess of shavings on the floor. There's a smoke hole he could uncover, to get a fire going if he wanted to, but doesn't need it to cook and isn't in the mood to collect firewood in the rain. The children are all inside with their families, and just as when Merlin had been wounded, no one here wants to learn knife fighting or play at dice.

How is he supposed to protect Merlin when he isn't allowed near during his lessons?

How is he supposed to protect Arthur on Merlin's behalf, when he's nowhere near Camelot?

Gwaine chews on that for a while before he decides he's had enough thinking. It's time to go look for Merlin.

* * *

 

He finds them near the bathing grotto, sitting on the bank above the water. He moves as silently as a hunter, finding a spot out of the way where he hopefully won't distract Merlin, but can still keep an eye on him if anything happens. As Nesta had promised, he and Conor are just sitting there, with their eyes closed, facing the water. Every now and again, Conor will raise his hand and gesture, and a few moments later Merlin will copy him. Conor looks fairly serene underneath his beard and bushy hair, but Merlin is frowning in concentration as he tries to follow whatever it is that Conor is doing.

The rain drips down, but as both the other men are ignoring it, Gwaine figures he can, too.

He isn't sure how much time has passed, but his hair is plastered to his forehead and he's starting to get a bit chilled when Conor makes one last gesture. Merlin smiles, opens his eyes, and looks directly at Gwaine. He also moves his hands, not quite copying Conor this time, and Gwaine feels something warm pass over his skin. When he looks down, he sees that his clothes are dry, and his hair isn't stuck to his forehead anymore. It's still raining, a little, but he won't get too wet on the way back to the main camp.

"You're going to make me look fluffy as a dog after a bath," he calls, and Merlin laughs quietly. He reaches for his staff and levers himself to his feet, then sways and blinks owlishly for a few seconds. In three quick leaps across the rocks, Gwaine is by his side and holding his elbow. "Are you all right?" he demands, trying not to glare at Conor.

"I was just sitting down too long," Merlin says. "I'm fine. I feel great, actually." Gwaine narrows his eyes at him, but Merlin only rolls his and pulls away. "I'm _fine_ , Gwaine."

"You nearly died not that long ago. You'll forgive me for being a bit overprotective now."

Merlin grimaces at that. "Yeah, all right. Fair. But I really am all right. I just stood up too quickly."

"I could have sworn I asked you to stay away during these lessons," says Conor. He doesn't sound angry, but neither does he seem especially pleased.

"Aye," Gwaine admits, completely unrepentant, "but I've also promised to protect Merlin. And as I just told him, he nearly died recently. I feel better when I have my eye on him."

Conor eyes him narrowly for a moment before his expression clears and he smiles. "You're a good friend to him, then."

"Someone has to be." The druids, nice as they are, are all wrapped up in their destiny and prophecy nonsense; Gwaine doubts many of them even see Merlin as a person, magic lessons or not.

"All right, then," Conor says with a nod. "As long as you can stay out of the way and let us work, then, I suppose it'll be all right to have you near."

"I appreciate that," Gwaine answers. "What was it you were doing just now, if I can ask?"

Conor only looks expectantly at Merlin, who blows out a breath in frustration. "There's a ley line just there, flowing past the grotto. It's why I told you the grotto has a nice feel to it; I can sense the magic in the line. Master Conor is having me sort of dip my fingers into it to feel it, to make myself more sensitive to magical energy. Although I'm already pretty sensitive, he says if I keep at it, there's no reason I couldn't be able to feel a powerful sorcerer altering things from a distance."

"Like Morgana," says Gwaine, and Merlin nods.

"In theory, I might be able to feel her working a powerful enough spell and be able to reach out and find her. Maybe even stop her. How far that distance might be…" He shrugs. "Well, we'll just have to find out with practice."

"And are you a good student?" Gwaine nudges his shoulder as they begin the walk back to camp.

"I'm not trying to be difficult, if that's what you mean. I'm not Arthur, and I know there are holes in what I know, if that makes sense."

"It does."

"Master Conor has me trying to reach in and touch the ley line so that I can do something with its energies, but it's like trying to grab smoke! I don't have the hang of it yet."

"It'll come," says Conor placidly. Gwaine looks over his shoulder to see the other man nod at him significantly, glancing at Merlin and then back. Gwaine isn't sure what Conor might mean by it, but he'll be able to ask later. "Mostly you're used to pounding at things with your magic till they give way, and this takes a more delicate touch. That doesn't mean you can't do it, only that you're not used to it."

"I know, but it's still…" Merlin huffs a breath and shakes his head. "It's annoying, is what it is. It's been a while since I didn't pick up a spell on the first or second try."

"Well, maybe give it till your third or fourth before you start beating yourself over it, aye?" asks Conor with a bit of a grin, and Merlin smiles.

"It's only the first day. And I don't have anyone's life at stake while I practice, for a change. I should tell you about the time I brought a dog statue to life. Took me all night to learn that spell, past sunrise and into midmorning, and Arthur was facing a false knight in the tournament that day."

"False… like he was a commoner?" asks Gwaine.

"No. False like he cheated. His shield had these snakes painted on it, but it was actually an enchanted shield, so he could bring them to life to attack when no one was looking. Just get in close with his opponent, say the word, and then _fsst_ , poisoned bites all over you. And while you're dying, he stabs you to make it look like he won fair and square."

"Sounds like a real piece of work," says Gwaine.

"He was. And I only had one night to learn the spell to bring them to life when _I_ wanted, instead of when _he_ wanted. But I managed. I took care of the snakes, and Arthur did the rest." There's pride in Merlin's voice, but Gwaine thinks it's about equally divided between himself and the princess.

"One night, you say?" asks Conor. His voice sounds just a little too casual.

"All night," Merlin confirms, missing the way Conor's eyebrows rise. "It was the first proper spell I ever really learned. The pronunciation was really difficult."

"Did it happen to be _Bebiede the arisan cwicum?_ " Conor asks. The hair on the back of Gwaine's neck stands up, hearing magic words spoken, but nothing happens around them. Maybe there's more to it than just saying the right words.

"That's the one!" Merlin laughs. "I was more than half asleep by the time I finally got that statue to turn into a dog. And then he tried to bite me."

Merlin prattles on, oblivious, but Gwaine doesn't miss the amazed expression on Conor's face. Apparently Merlin's done something remarkable without realizing it. He and Conor share a look, and Gwaine decides he'll see if Conor doesn't have any more of that "Water of Life" stuff to share sometime late this evening.

* * *

 

Merlin eats much better at dinnertime than he has in ages, and then despite protesting that he isn't tired, falls asleep in their tent while still sitting up. Gwaine manages to rouse him just long enough to get him undressed, and then lays him down on his pallet and covers him with a blanket. Merlin's too far gone to try and wrestle into a shirt, so for tonight Gwaine decides he'll sleep in only his trousers; the scar on his abdomen is stark in the lamplight before Gwaine covers him up. He can't resist ruffling the younger man's hair before he steps back out to the central clearing. Merlin barely stirs.

Conor is waiting for him, a boiled leather flask in his hand, when Gwaine steps out of the tent. "Asleep, is he?"

"Like blowing out a candle," says Gwaine, as they start walking. "Is that normal?"

"Working with magical energies takes concentration and focus. It can be tiring, in a different way from physical labor, but still enough to wear a person out."

"He hasn't been sleeping well lately, since he was stabbed. Maybe tonight he won't have nightmares."

Conor nods. "I pushed him today, to see what he was capable of. And I will continue to push him tomorrow, and the next day, until he is at the limits of my ability to contain him." He pulls the stopper out of the leather flask and swallows a mouthful, then grimaces at the burn of the liquor inside. "Not that I think I can truly contain him even now, but I can at least counter most of the spells he comes up with."

"He's that strong?"

"Strong!" Conor passes the flask to Gwaine and waits while he takes a sip. Yep, that's Water of Life, all right. It warms Gwaine all the way down. "Emrys is said to be the most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth. And I am here now to tell you that I have never encountered a sorcerer as powerful as your Merlin. His technique… well, it's as I said earlier today. He has enough power that he can use it like a hammer to bash his way through most obstacles. He can pronounce the words _mostly_ correctly and trust his will and his immense magic to flow enough in the right direction to accomplish what he wants. With any other sorcerer, that would exhaust them and waste energy that they should keep in reserve. But his reserves are as vast as the ocean. He could get by with terrible technique for the rest of his life and never notice."

"Until someone comes along who's almost as strong, but a lot more skilled," says Gwaine. He's speaking from experience as a fighter, bested in his younger days once by a woman half his size who could do things with knives that he'd never imagined.

"Aye," says Conor. "And the High Priestesses will have the sort of training that could render him helpless to their will, no matter how strong he is. All that power, on a leash held by one such as Morgana?" Conor actually shudders, and takes another pull from his flask. Gwaine can't blame him; it sounds like the stuff of nightmares. "And of course, someday magic may be welcomed in Albion again; our prophecies say it will."

"I remember."

Conor shrugs. "If that day comes, Emrys would be highly sought after as a teacher. As gifted as he is…"

"Gifted?"

"Oh, aye, he's a damn fast learner, or seems to be from what he's said. That spell to enchant a thing, and give it the semblance of life? He learned that in a night, when it would take most diligent, serious students of magic years to learn. If they could learn it at all. That's why I was so surprised earlier today. But as I was saying, gifted as he is, if he doesn't have proper technique, he'll never be able to pass on what he knows."

"Or else he'll have a dozen students who have terrible technique like him, and all manage to get themselves killed."

"Aye," Conor says soberly. "As a teacher I owe it to every magic user, from my ancestors' teachers to my students' students, to make certain I pass along what I know as best I can, and to keep people like Merlin from cocking up the body of knowledge for everyone else."

Gwaine blinks until he sees Conor's easy smile, then chuckles at the joke as the other man passes him the flask for another drink. Not that Conor is stretching the truth; Gwaine can see how one bad teacher could ruin things for generations of students, if there are only a few people to pass on knowledge in the first place.

"So you start him with lessons on, what? Having a delicate touch with his weapon?" Gwaine can't help putting it in terms of fighting with a blade. "A man who grips his sword or his knife too tightly loses flexibility in his wrist. There are moves he can't make, defenses that fail, because he's trying too hard."

Conor nods in approval. "He spent today's lesson trying to grasp the ley line, only to punch through it, most times. When he did have it, he couldn't feel it because his own energy was in the way. He doesn't know what it's like not to have magic at his command, or to have to pull energy from outside himself." At that, the druid tips his head thoughtfully. "Now, there's an idea."

"What?"

"Two ideas, actually," he replies. "First, the healer, Nesta, says he needs to build up his strength now that he's recovered from his injury. Perhaps you could spar with him, train him with a blade, and teach him a bit about that delicate touch he needs in order to succeed."

The druids wouldn't object to that?" Gwaine asks.

"You are not required to follow our ways," says Conor. "And I think seeing the same concepts taught in another form might be good for him."

"All right," says Gwaine. Truth be told, he has been bored, and Merlin has the build to be a hell of a knife fighter, if he applies himself. "That's the first idea. What's the second?"

"Merlin almost has too much magic. I'm thinking he could do with less, for a while."

Gwaine stares at Conor, as the crickets chirp and distant thunder rumbles. The other man only studies him right back, unperturbed, until Gwaine reaches out and snatches the leather flask from him for a good long drink.


	24. Chapter 24

"You want me to do what?" Merlin eyes the vial in Conor's hand dubiously the next day. Gwaine can't say that he blames him. "The last time we defeated Morgana it was because I was able to take her magic away, I'm not letting you do that to me!"

"No, lad, of course not. I could no sooner take magic out of you than I could take wet out of the ocean. But this will make it a bit harder to reach all of it at once, that's all. The idea is to make it easier for you to reach that ley line, and to feel sources of energy outside yourself."

But Merlin is shaking his head, and to Gwaine's eye he's a step from bolting from the clearing. "No. I won't do it."

Conor narrows his eyes at the younger man, and Gwaine thinks he's about to try and threaten him, but instead he says, "You're a good deal more frightened of this than I thought you'd be. Why is that?"

Merlin goes red, and clamps his jaw shut. He eyes Gwaine as if this were somehow his idea, but Gwaine only shrugs. "I'll back you whatever you decide, Merlin. But for what it's worth, I don't think the druids have anything nefarious planned."

Merlin takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Without my magic, I'm nothing," he says lowly. There's a barely-contained tremor in his voice. "I won't let you rip that away from me."

"There'd be no _ripping_ ," Conor assures them. "You'd still have your magic. It'd just be harder to reach, not impossible. In an emergency, your fear or anger would burn the potion right out of your system and you'd be back to normal in minutes. And even without an emergency, the potion only lasts a couple of hours, and even _then_ , I have the antidote ready to hand. If you want, we can even take the potion together."

That seems to bring Merlin up short, judging by the way he looks at Conor with disbelief in his eyes. "You'd do that," he asks, full of mistrust. It's a different look on his friend than Gwaine has ever seen before, this suspicious, wary creature in place of the kind young man that he's always known before now. "You'd actually suppress your own magic."

"If it'd reassure you, aye," says Conor. "I'm not afraid of what this potion does. I've taken it before, several times. It's often used as a medicine when treating magical illnesses." Merlin and Gwaine both frown at that a little, and Conor explains. "There are diseases that latch onto a person's magical energy instead of, say, their lungs or their guts. You take this potion and the sickness has a harder time reaching your energy too. Plus, getting your own energy out of the way makes it easier to find the spell and root it out."

"And it really only lasts a couple of hours?" Merlin still sounds wary, but he's coming around, Gwaine thinks. Or at least, he doesn't look quite so ready to hit Conor over the head with his staff and make a run for it.

"It really does. Look, as I said, Merlin, I'll take the first dose myself. Takes a few minutes to take effect; probably the time it'll take us to walk down to the grotto and get ready."

"And you've got the antidote."

"I do, right here." Conor pulls it out of a pocket in his robe. "In fact, I'll let you hold onto that, in case you think you need it."

Merlin glances over at Gwaine again, uncertain, and Gwaine knows exactly what's going through his head. "I'll come with you," he says. "And I'll bring my sword. You'll be safe if I have anything to say about it."

Merlin swallows hard, then nods. "All right," he says, then takes a breath and steels himself. "All right," he says a little louder.

"Brave lad," says Conor, and pulls the stopper out of the vial. "Bottoms up, eh?" With one quick swallow, half the contents of the vial are gone. "The rest is yours."

Merlin eyes the whole thing dubiously, but takes the vial nonetheless. He sniffs it once, carefully, and then swallows down the potion, handing the vial back to the druid teacher. Then he shudders all over. "Cold," he gasps.

"Already?" Conor raises an eyebrow. "The cold feeling is normal with stronger sorcerers like yourself. It usually takes a little longer to kick in, though."

Gwaine leans in close, giving Merlin his shoulder and his warmth if he needs it. "I'm right here, Merlin. You doing all right?"

"I can feel my magic going," he says, and shivers. "I didn't know it was so warm." He looks at Gwaine with a lost expression that makes Gwaine want to go and kill something to make it better. "It feels like bleeding."

Gwaine steps even closer, and pulls Merlin close with an arm across his shoulders. "We'll be in my tent until this levels out," he says.

Conor frowns a little, but nods. "Just remember, lad, you've the antidote right there in your hand if you need it. But give the potion time to take full effect first. I really think you'll benefit from approaching today's lesson without quite so much energy getting in the way, or I wouldn't have suggested this. All right?"

Merlin shudders again, but nods. "I'll try."

"Good lad."

* * *

 

They adjourn to their tent, where Gwaine takes a moment to slip a few knives into his boots and belt, and then buckles his sword into place on his hip. He hadn't been wearing it out of respect for the druids, since it seemed to make them nervous, but he's protecting Merlin now and their sensibilities don't matter quite as much compared to that.

He's kept an eye on Merlin while he prepared himself, and Merlin hasn't stopped shivering the whole time. He's got his arms wrapped around his middle and looks more frightened than Gwaine has ever seen him.

"I used to think nothing scared you," he says, sitting down on Merlin's pallet beside him. "Couldn't decide if you were brave or foolhardy."

"Yeah, well, this does," says Merlin. "Surprise," he adds with false cheer. Then he shudders again, head to toe. "And I'm not brave, not really," he adds. "It's only my magic that gives me anything to go into battle with. Without it, I'm just a peasant in over his head."

"You're a hell of a lot more than that, my friend," says Gwaine. "You're _my_ friend, for starters. Arthur's confidant, the only person he listens to besides his father; the only person to talk sense into his great swelled head, aye? You don't use your magic to make him listen." Gwaine cocks his head. "Or do you?"

"No. I suppose not."

"You're practically a son to Gaius," he goes on. "Don't think I haven't noticed the looks he gives me whenever I stop by, as if I'd be corrupting your sweet innocence."

Merlin snorts, which sounds a little weird given that it's in the middle of another shiver. "'Sweet innocence', Gwaine, _really_?"

"Pure as the driven snow, you are," Gwaine teases, which earns him an elbow to the ribs, but a smile too, which was what he was aiming for. "Or is it the opposite, and you country lads get an early start on your education?"

"That's none of your business, Gwaine," Merlin says. Then he falls quiet, and shuts his eyes.

"Everything all right?"

It takes a moment, one in which Gwaine's concern climbs a little higher, but eventually Merlin nods. "I'm feeling the… the bleeding, I guess. Or whatever this potion is doing. I think it's slowing down."

"And you still have your magic?"

In response, Merlin opens his eyes and holds a hand out in front of him, palm down. With a quick flash of gold, his staff floats slowly up and into his hand, and he heaves an enormous sigh of relief. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I still have it."

"So I see."

"It's definitely harder to do things, but it's still there."

"How do you feel otherwise?" Gwaine asks.

"Cold," Merlin replies. "Just… cold all over."

"Let's get you a blanket, then," offers Gwaine, but the other man only shakes his head.

"I don't think it'll do any good. I'm cold _inside_ , if that makes sense."

Gwaine shrugs. It doesn't, but he figures he can follow Merlin's lead here, just as he has in the past. "Whatever you say, then," he says. "Are we ready to face Conor and that ley line thing?"

Merlin takes a deep breath. "I think so," he says. "You're still coming with me, right?"

"Wyverns couldn't keep me away." Gwaine smiles at his friend, and Merlin smiles back.

* * *

 

For all that Merlin is scared half out of his head, the rest of their lesson is pretty uneventful. No one comes jumping out of the bushes to attack, Conor doesn't suddenly start cackling madly and trying to kill them, and Morgana doesn't make a surprise appearance. Instead, the two magic users sit on the bank above the bathing grotto and close their eyes, and Gwaine watches as they go through the whole gesture-and-copy routine once more. This time, though, Conor spends the lesson speaking aloud instead of in Merlin's thoughts. Gwaine wonders if it isn't out of courtesy to him, or if Merlin can't hear thoughts while under the influence of the potion.

"See how I reach out and just touch, just gently," Conor is saying, sitting serenely with his eyes closed and his legs crossed. Beside him, Merlin is wearing the same frown of concentration that he'd worn yesterday. He reaches out with one hand, and something changes, because out of nowhere his expression brightens and he shouts, "I did it!"

"There you are, lad, just like that," says Conor. "Now let go, and do it again."

"I thought you wanted me to feel it," says Merlin.

"Aye, but first I want to see that you've gotten the hang of touching without blasting right through what's there."

Merlin bites his lip. "All right," he says. His hand moves through the air again, graceful and tentative. "Like that?"

"You've almost got it…"

"There." Even with his eyes closed, Merlin's smile is blinding.

"There. Very nice. You're a beginner still, but you're developing a lighter touch already. That's good. Now, again."

They repeat the exercise several times before Conor lets Merlin move on to trying to feel the energy of the ley line, whatever that might mean. It's all over Gwaine's head anyway, but it's still kind of interesting to listen to, to see this side of Merlin that so far no one else in Camelot knows about. Not even Arthur.

"There are different strengths to different sorcerers, you know that," Conor is saying. "Different levels of power, but also different affinities."

"Mine seems to just be with destroying things," says Merlin glumly, opening his eyes.

"Ach, not so. Destruction is just another way of saying _transformation_ ," Conor explains. "And I can already see you've an affinity for the elemental magics. You've told me you've created flowers from nothing before. And I don't think those butterflies were destructive."

"Yes, but I'm rubbish at healing. I can kill people with magic, but I can't _fix_ them when they're hurt."

"I'd be willing to bet that you're perfectly capable of healing, once you've developed a lighter touch with your magic," says Conor. "What we're doing here with the ley line will help with that. Healing is about using an energy source that is not your own, augmenting it with your power if it's weak, smoothing it where it's been damaged. You're so used to only using your own power—because it's vast, let's not beat round the bush here—but it means you aren't touching the energy of the other person. Of course healing would be more difficult for you. You've never learned properly how to do it."

"I… I think I understand," says Merlin, and the smile he gives then is one of relief. "I just…" He looks down and away, and Conor nods.

"You're no monster, lad, just because you're stronger than any ten of us put together. You only need to learn to direct your strength gently, rather than bashing at things until they do what you want. You're more of a toddler than a monster," he adds, and then laughs at Merlin's indignant expression. After a moment, Merlin joins him in chuckling quietly, and the sound does Gwaine good to hear.

"Now then," Conor says. "Again." Merlin takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and returns to his lesson.

* * *

 

Ector is waiting for Arthur the next day, after training. Arthur swallows his dread down, feeling very much as if he's preparing to do battle with the other knight; in a very real way, for Merlin's sake, he is.

"Sir Ector," he says, letting none of his unease show. "What can I do for you?"

"Sire. You've forbidden us from talking about that _sorcerer_ ," Ector all but sneers the word, "but we have a right to know whether he still lives. Whether he's a threat to Camelot."

"He's not a threat to Camelot." That, at least, Arthur can say with absolute certainty.

"You sent him off to the druids!" He's jittery, all but pacing the armory, and it's a relief to realize that he's as nervous about this conversation as Arthur is.

"I did what I could to spare his life, in return for his saving mine."

"And you think he won't foment rebellion, now that he's among his own kind?"

The thought is laughable, but Arthur knows better to give in and actually laugh in Ector's face. "Tell me something, Ector," he says instead. "When was the last time Camelot was attacked by druids?"

Ector pulls up short at this. "That—that doesn't matter," he tries, but Arthur only raises an eyebrow.

"I think it very much does. Answer the question."

Ector is blinking rapidly now, shaking his head as if there's a fly buzzing in his ear. "We've… to my knowledge we've never been attacked by druids, but—"

"But nothing. The druids are a peaceful people. They are interested in surviving and in hiding from the predations of Camelot knights. They are not interested in rebellion."

"But they use magic!"

"Yes, I'm told that some of them do. To heal, mostly, from what I have heard and read. To help crops grow. To read the weather." Arthur shrugs, and gives Ector a heavy-lidded, lazy look. "Does that sound to you like a threat to Camelot?"

Ector, visibly nonplussed, does not answer at first. Arthur continues unbuckling his vambraces, letting the other man figure out his next move.

"Your servant isn't a druid," says Ector.

"Not that I'm aware of, no," Arthur replies.

"We've seen him kill. The druids may be peaceful, but he certainly isn't."

"We've seen him save my life, Ector. Would you prefer that he hadn't?"

Ector's jaw drops, and his eyes grow wide. "Sire!" Arthur might be twisting his words a bit, but he's twisting them toward treason, and Ector knows it.

"I've seen _you_ kill, Ector. You are a knight. By definition you are not a peaceful man. But I know you are not a threat to me, because you are _mine_. Is that not so?"

"I—sire, yes, of course. I may disagree with you about letting that servant live, but that does not mean I want—" He can't even say it, which is good, Arthur thinks. "I swore my oaths to you and your father the king."

"Yes, you did," says Arthur. "And Merlin swore his. To me." That's not precisely true, but Arthur is quite certain he can make it true with little effort. In fact, thinking about it, he'd be proud and honored to accept Merlin's oath of service, given how loyal he is.

"But… how can you trust the word of a sorcerer?" Ector seems truly not to understand.

Arthur sighs. "My father has carried on his purge of magic users for as long as I've been alive," he says. "And I know that that mistrust of magic is all that you have been taught. It was all I was taught as well, but in order to be king, I must not be uninformed or ignorant of any part of my kingdom. I have chosen to fill in the gaps in my education, and I have learned that before my father's purge, before I was born, magic users were just as much a part of Camelot's society as knights, or weavers, or farmers. They had a _place_ here, for _centuries_. Some of the king's most trusted advisers were sorcerers. Nobles who held land in fief to the crown were sorcerers. There were knights who fought with both spell and blade. It is even said that the castle itself was _built_ by a powerful sorcerer who was a trusted confidant of the king."

Ector gapes at him.

"My own father kept at least one sorceress at court."

Now the knight regroups, back on familiar ground. "Yes, until she betrayed him. The late queen—"

"I would prefer that we _not_ discuss my mother," says Arthur sharply.

"Forgive me, sire," says Ector, and he even bows a little, "but the sorceress Nimueh betrayed the king _and queen_ , God rest her soul. She showed beyond doubt that magic users are not to be trusted."

"Nimueh showed that _she herself_ was not to be trusted," says Arthur tiredly. He's not even sure if that's true, thanks to the apparition Morgause once showed him. Either way he knows he can trust Merlin, and that is enough to go on with for now. "Do you judge all kings by the actions of one? Or all knights?"

Ector is back to uneven footing, judging by the expression on his face. "N…no, sire."

"There you go," says Arthur reasonably. "You know that every knight is his own man, and you know that there are both good and bad kings. The only way to judge them is individually, on their own merits. You have forgotten that it is the same with every person in the world. From servants to sorcerers, you cannot lump them all together and hope to make any accurate conclusions about them."

"But how many sorcerers have tried to kill you, Your Highness?" Ector says, a little desperately.

"How many of them have we given cause to want to try?" counters Arthur. "How many of them have we murdered for no crime other than simply _having_ magic? How many women and children have we slaughtered in the name of the Purge?" When Ector doesn't answer, Arthur presses, "How many people have we executed just for _speaking_ to a sorcerer? Or someone who is only a suspected sorcerer, with no proof? How many have even gotten a fair trial?"

Ector's eyes are wide, and he looks over his shoulder and lowers his voice before speaking. "Sire… I know he is your father, but you speak treason."

"I speak against a policy that I believe is wrong," Arthur replies. "And it is a policy I will change when I am king. _When I am king_ ," he repeats, "and not a moment before. I am loyal to Camelot and will never do anything to endanger her."

"No, sire. I know that. I have never doubted it."

He doubted letting Merlin live, but Arthur still nods. "Good." He returns to unbuckling his armor. "Was there anything else you wished to discuss with me?"

It is a clear dismissal, and Ector is smart enough to recognize it. "No, sire," he says, calmer now. "You… have given me much to think about."

"I am happy to hear that," says Arthur. "A little introspection is good for a man of noble character, such as yourself." And he is, Arthur realizes. Ector has always fought fiercely, and while he may be more loyal to Uther than he is to Arthur, his loyalty to Camelot overall has never been called into question. He is not an evil man for wanting Merlin dead, only one who has been as desperately misguided in the past as Arthur once was.

"Thank you, sire," says the knight, and Arthur nods as he bows respectfully and leaves.

Arthur isn't sure, but he thinks his battle for Merlin's life may just have been won.


	25. Chapter 25

If Arthur needed proof that the knights have been gossiping behind his back, he gets it in the days to come. Speculative looks from Ector, Bors, and Lucan follow him on the training field, along with a few disgruntled glares from some of the other older knights. There are surprisingly few of those, however, and they are tempered for Arthur by the looks of approval from Lancelot, Percival, and Elyan. Leon only looks concerned, but as first knight, he seems determined to keep his own opinions about the matter to himself. In any case, no one challenges Arthur on the training field, and no one confronts him in a private moment before or after, either. The situation isn't perfect, but he'll take it, and deal with any problems that may crop up later.

Off the training field, Arthur is pleasantly surprised to see the council falling into line with his wishes. The threat of Morgana destroying Camelot in less than three months' time has them all of one accord, and while Arthur cannot yet command them, as he is not yet king, whatever he recommends, he gets. There are increased patrols, and funding for lone scouts; Arthur hesitates to call them "spies" but that is probably what they are, since the funding goes to paying off informants as often as not.

There's little sign of where Morgana might be, but at least they're getting a picture of where she is not. On the other hand, she could be using magic to hide herself, and all Arthur's spies might never find her before it's too late.

He wonders about asking Merlin to search for her with magic, but then he wonders whether he has the right to ask anything of Merlin ever again.

Throughout all of this, Uther is… not well. Barely present, most days, and supremely indifferent to anything Arthur has to say. There are days when he wants to yell and shake his father, demand that Uther take up the burden of the crown once more and _do something_ about this threat, because Arthur does not feel ready to lead the kingdom, much less lead it into war. As soon as the violent impulses take him, however, Arthur will be overcome with shame, appalled that he could think such thoughts toward a man who is clearly ill and no longer in control of his faculties. What sort of man is Arthur, that he would even consider such a response toward a man who has become, in most respects, defenseless?

"It is possible that Uther may yet recover, given the proper stimulus," Gaius tells Arthur, during one of his evening visits to the physician's tower. "Do not lose hope yet, sire."

Arthur can only sigh, and close the book he's been pretending to read for the past half hour. "What sort of stimulus will it take, Gaius? I won't torment him in an effort to bring him out of himself; it's cruel, and sickening even to contemplate."

"No, I'm of the opinion that such practices do nothing to help the afflicted person, no matter how popular they may be in certain medical schools of thought."

"But speaking to him, asking his advice, trying to engage him in matters of the kingdom… he simply doesn't _care_ , Gaius. And I hesitate to bring up Morgana." The last time he'd tried, Uther had actually wept in front of Arthur, the action so disconcerting, so unlike Uther, that he hadn't known how to respond.

"No, I understand. But perhaps if the kingdom were in more immediate danger, that would be enough for him to step forward and lead again."

Arthur sighs. "I doubt it." When Gaius only bows and returns to his work, Arthur opens the book about the history of magic in Camelot, and tries to read once more.

* * *

 

For the second time in as many days, Merlin has a dubious expression on his face, but this time it's because of Gwaine, not Conor. "You want me to learn knife fighting," he says slowly, as if unsure he's heard Gwaine correctly. "Me. Fighting. With a sharp knife."

"That's right," Gwaine replies easily. "You've got the build for it."

"Gwaine, you have got to be kidding. I don't have the build for anything but sweeping floors. With my face."

Gwaine can't help but laugh at that. "That is patently untrue, my friend."

"Oh come on, you've seen me with Arthur and sword practice, I'm hopeless!"

"A sword is not a knife, and Arthur has never approached you like he should. He's not actually a bad teacher, but you're a beginner, not a squire, and you weren't raised with a blade in your hand."

"You're damn right I wasn't," Merlin shoots back.

"But Merlin," says Gwaine, suddenly serious, "I remember you saying that you were able to take Morgana's magic away temporarily, and that's how we were able to defeat her last time. What if that were ever to happen to you?"

Merlin shudders. He studies Gwaine's face as if the possibility had never occurred to him.

"You need a way to defend yourself, if nothing else, as a fallback in case your magic ever does fail you. If you can't tell me right now that that's impossible, then I can't think of a good reason for you not to learn."

"It's… not impossible," Merlin says. "Someone could take my magic, if they knew how. But I'm still—"

"Recovering from being stabbed, yes, I know. I wouldn't come at you full speed right away. What do you take me for? But this would be a good way for you to get your strength back."

"The druids," Merlin tries, but Gwaine was expecting that one.

"It was Conor's idea," he counters, watching Merlin's eyebrows go up. "He said that we're not required to follow their ways. It's only fair to respect them, though, so if you don't want to do it here in camp, we can find somewhere else to practice. Either way, I really do think that training in knife fighting would be good for you."

Merlin still looks more than a little apprehensive, but he at least doesn't refuse. "I'm going to be terrible."

"Everyone is, when they first start out." He pulls a blade from his boot and flips it once, so he can pass it hilt-first to Merlin. "Now, first lesson. This is a knife."

"Very funny."

"Ah, so you already know something. You're farther along than you think you are."

"Tell that to Arthur," mutters Merlin darkly.

Gwaine sighs, then flips his hair out of his face. "I know you don't like to hear anything against him, but what are the odds that he's never actually tried _teaching_ you, only bashing you about for the fun of it?"

Merlin grimaces. "He _is_ fond of using me as a moving target," he admits.

"Yeah, well, I'm not. We won't spar much at all until I'm sure you know how to defend against an attack. Plus, as you said, you're still getting your strength back after having been stabbed. You're not ready for a knife fight against me, but you can still learn the basics without even getting up off this bench."

"If you say so." Merlin looks around the camp, where the druids are going about their business and the kids are running about, and shrugs. "All right, then."

"All right, then." Gwaine smiles. "As I was saying: This is a knife."

* * *

 

That is how the days pass for the next several weeks. Merlin spends his mornings with Conor, and other teachers too as Merlin advances, learning magic in ways that grow more and more esoteric, until Merlin can't even come up with ways to describe them to Gwaine. He tries, though, which Gwaine appreciates, even if he can't follow half of it. In the afternoons, he learns knife-fighting, working his way up to sparring at half-speed, and then eventually to full speed for some of the simpler moves. Merlin's a quick learner, Gwaine is pleased to note, and even quicker once he realizes that he's not actually a natural failure at fighting in general.

Between the magic use and the knife practice, Merlin is almost constantly hungry. He eats like a small horse at every meal; the druids smile to see it, and only press more food on him whenever it looks like his bowl might be getting empty. He'd gone gaunt while recovering from his injury, and now he fills out to a healthy weight, with muscles that become more sharply defined with each passing week.

"I'd like to visit Arthur," he says out of the blue one day, after they've finished a round of sparring. They're both still catching their breaths, the sweat cooling on their skin, and Gwaine is reaching for his water skin when Merlin says it.

Gwaine nearly drops the skin. "You want to what?"

"It's only two weeks until the eclipse," Merlin explains. "I want to know what Camelot's plans are."

"Aren't you the one who insisted that if you went back you'd be killed on sight?" Gwaine flips sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes.

Merlin grins impishly. "They'd have to recognize me first." He mutters something under his breath, his eyes flash gold, and suddenly there is a total stranger standing in front of Gwaine, with nondescript features and muddy brown hair. He's about an inch shorter than Merlin, with a stocky build. Only the eyes are the same.

"That's some trick," says Gwaine.

"And it's only one that I've learned for going unnoticed," says the stranger. Even his voice is different. "I can make your eyes slide off me in a crowd so that I'm not noticeable, or even go completely invisible, but that one's a bit tricky. Or I could shift my shape into a cat or a crow or something, and sneak about that way." The stranger shifts back into Merlin's form, and grins. "I'd planned on traveling to Camelot that way, actually."

"Didn't Conor teach you about using the secret paths a few days ago?"

"He did, but you can still get lost if you don't know the route," Merlin explains. "I could follow this ley line all the way to Gedref if I weren't careful, and miss Camelot completely."

Gwaine shrugs. "Conor seemed to know the route, when they went with me and Arthur; bring him with you."

At this, Merlin sobers. "No, I don't want to put anyone else in danger. But I do need to know what Arthur has planned for Morgana's attack."

"What have _you_ planned for Morgana's attack?"

With a sigh, Merlin reaches for Gwaine's water skin and takes a long drink. Gwaine just waits him out until he says, "I'm not completely sure. The spell she wants to do… it's a ritual that properly requires either nine or twelve priestesses, and there's only one of her. I'm not sure how she'll alter the spell, or what it will do to her. And until I have a better idea about that, I can't really know what I'll need to do to stop her."

"The druid I met in that tavern seemed to think that just you being there would be enough to stop the ritual from happening properly," Gwaine suggests.

"True," counters Merlin, "but do you really think she'll just run away if that happens? No. I'll have to fight her, I'm almost sure of it. And I can't know how to do that until it actually happens."

"I just hope what you're learning includes combat magic," says Gwaine, with a raised eyebrow.

"It does. Conor taught me to _feel_ magic, especially energy outside myself. The others, Derwen and Earendil and the rest, are all teaching me different specialties, including combat magic. They haven't all been druids, you see."

"I'd thought not, but hadn't wanted to ask," Gwaine admits. "Didn't want to interfere in something that's not my business."

"Ask all you want," Merlin says with a smile. "I can't promise I can explain any of it, but I'll do my best."

"Do you really think it's a good idea to go to Camelot now?"

Merlin nods emphatically, and pulls his outer robe back on. He moves without wincing now, though sometimes Gwaine catches him rubbing at the scar a little. "I really do. Besides… I miss Arthur. And Gwen, and Gaius. It would be good to check in on them, see if they're okay."

"If you say so," says Gwaine. "I'll trust you. I would like to keep you safe here in the camp, but I know you're not a child, nor my servant to command."

"Even if I were your servant, I'd still ignore your orders," says Merlin with another mischievous smile. "Haven't you learned anything from seeing me with Arthur?"


	26. Chapter 26

They're about a week and a half away from the eclipse now; there is a tension in the air, and the knights are behaving like dogs on a hunt: twitching at every little thing, playing more boisterously, or else snapping at each other over imagined insults. Arthur has had to break up more than one fight by knocking heads together and sending knights— _knights_ —to the stocks until they cool off. They don't appreciate the treatment, to be sure, most of them thinking that stocks are a peasant's punishment and one they should be immune to.

"If they insist on acting like drunken louts, they'll be treated like it," Arthur says to Leon, after watching the latest pair get escorted off. "I expected them to have better discipline than this. We're preparing for a war."

"I think it's because no one knows when or where that first strike will come," says Leon. "We're all on edge."

Arthur sighs, because it is only the truth. "If they can keep that edge for the battle, and save up their energy for our enemies rather than wasting it on one another, I will be happy," he says.

A crow caws as if laughing at him, startlingly close by. "Ha! Ha!"

"Shut up, you," Arthur mutters, and Leon chuckles.

"If there's nothing else, sire?"

"No, nothing else. Or, wait. Tell Geoffrey I'm ready to speak to him in my chambers. He'll know what it's about." There's a certain map that Gaius has convinced him to allow Arthur to see, that shouldn't be shared with anyone else.

"Of course." Leon bows, and they part ways, Arthur heading toward his room before he has to break up yet another fight.

The crow from before glides ahead of him, closer than he usually sees them, and lands on the battlement, at eye level and within arm's reach. It's a handsome thing, for a crow, with glossy black feathers and a mischievous eye. It watches him as if expecting something, and he wonders if one of the local children has managed to tame it. "I haven't any treats for you, if that's what you're after," he says to it. "Go pester the kitchen maids."

"Ha!" says the crow. "Clotpole."

Arthur stops in his tracks. The crow fluffs up its feathers proudly.

"Prat."

" _Really_ ," he says. Trust Merlin to have tamed a crow while he lived here. The things are clever, he knows that much; no wonder it's come to Arthur looking for treats. "Your friend isn't here," he says, and resumes walking. He feels a bit foolish for speaking to a crow, of all things, but there's no one else around to witness it.

"Yeah he is," says the crow. Something about it sounds a bit less like a crow, actually…

Arthur turns around slowly, warily, one hand on his hilt. The crow hops closer to him, and lifts its head imperiously, and when it seems sure that Arthur is watching, he sees the crow's eye flash gold.

Arthur's own eyes grow wide, and he glances over his shoulder to make sure he's—they're—alone. " _Merlin?_ " he breathes.

"Ha! Ha!" The crow's head bobs gleefully. Then it, he?, takes off in flight, so close Arthur can feel the wind from its passage. It beats for height, and as Arthur watches, it soars up to land on the roof just above his chamber window. Even from that distance, Arthur can still see its beak open as it caws triumphantly.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Arthur, incredulous, can feel his eyebrows climbing his forehead, and his mouth curling into a smile despite all his efforts at maintaining princely dignity.

Well.

* * *

 

Arthur makes it to his chambers as quickly as he can without it being obvious that he's in a hurry. He has time to get over his surprise, though, and for a sense of caution to return. Just because he's seen a crow that knows some of Merlin's favorite insults, it doesn't follow that it really is Merlin transformed. It could just as easily be a spy for Morgana, or some other sorcerer, trying to trick him.

Fortunately, Arthur has been doing more than a little reading these past few weeks, in between strategy sessions and training, and he knows what he can do to be certain. Before he opens his window, he pulls his shaving mirror out from behind the changing screen, and sets it on his table. If he angles it just right, he can see the window in the mirror.

Then he settles in to wait.

Sure enough, after only a few minutes, the crow lands on his windowsill and cocks its head at the closed window. It pecks at the glass, but Arthur has his eyes on the mirror… and he seems Merlin's face, wearing an expression of annoyance that is perfectly familiar.

With a relieved smile, Arthur gets up and opens the window, stepping back as Merlin-the-crow hops inside. "What in the world are you doing here?" he demands, but he is sure Merlin can hear the good humor lying underneath the words.

Merlin, of course, ignores Arthur's greeting like the insolent fool he is and flutters across to Arthur's table, pulling a grape out of the bunch that a servant had brought that morning. He drops it to the table and pins it in place with one foot before beginning to massacre the thing with his beak.

"Merlin?"

"Hungry."

"Is that you talking, or the crow? Should I hide all my shiny objects, now, while you're distracted?"

"Ha," says Merlin. "Prat." He doesn't even look up from his meal, gobbling down the grape in bits and selecting another one as soon as he's finished. There are seeds and juice spreading across the table.

"You're cleaning that up when you're done," says Arthur.

"I will."

He's about to ask Merlin why he doesn't simply shift back into human form to eat when there's a knock at the door. Merlin's head darts up and he eyes Arthur suspiciously. "That'll be Geoffrey," he says instead. "Stay where you are, I'll handle this."

"Hide?"

"No. No need. Anyway, I think you'll want to see what Geoffrey has brought."

He opens the door and Geoffrey enters, carrying a map case that looks sturdy but old. The archivist stops, blinking, when he sees the crow on Arthur's table.

"Oh, that," says Arthur. "Merlin tamed the damn thing and it comes looking for treats every once in a while. I haven't had the heart to get rid of it."

"I see, sire."

"Prat," says Merlin. Arthur glares, but it's wasted on the bird, who only fluffs up his feathers again.

"Of course, the idiot trained it to insult me, too, so I'm really not sure _why_ I keep it around," he adds.

"Ha!" says Merlin, before grabbing another grape.

"Er… yes, sire." Geoffrey holds up the map case. "I have what you requested," he says, lowering his voice. He is a cool one, unflappable most of the time, but even so, Arthur notices the way he glances over his shoulder to see that the door is firmly shut behind him. If Uther were to find this map, or if Arthur were not operating in good faith, it would mean Geoffrey's head for certain. "Do you require me to read it for you?"

"I may," says Arthur. He beckons the archivist closer to the table, and deliberately moves his shaving mirror out of the way as he does, turning it so that it will be impossible to catch Merlin's reflection. The crow cocks his head at it, then at Arthur. He hops closer as Geoffrey opens the map case and pulls out a roll of parchment, brown with age.

"I must ask, sire, that you keep the bird away. This map is one of a kind, and quite old. I would hate to see it damaged in any way."

"Of course." Arthur holds his arm out toward Merlin, nudging him in the breast with the back of his wrist. Merlin blinks at it and back at him. "Come on," says Arthur, nudging him again. "Up you get. Be a good little bird, now."

"Crr," says Merlin, but he at least understands what Arthur is about, because he steps easily enough onto Arthur's wrist, and then sidles his way up onto Arthur's shoulder. The weight settling there reminds him of Merlin's hand, reassuring him during his rare moments of insecurity. Arthur can't help but smile and reach up to stroke his breast feathers, which are impossibly soft and warm.

Geoffrey unrolls the parchment to reveal a surprisingly large map of Albion, but it's marked in ways that are quite unlike any Arthur has seen before. In addition to roads, rivers, and mountains, the mapmaker has added lines in red ink, ruled in straight lines and gentle curves, that crisscross Albion seemingly at random, ignoring mountains and other boundaries. Where the lines cross, gilded circles of varying sizes have been added with labels in red. "Node of the Picts," reads one, in Latin. "Gate of Avalon," says another; "Node of the Disir", another still. In the middle of a lake, he sees one labeled "Isle of the Blessed."

"These are called 'ley lines,' are they not?" asks Arthur.

"That is correct, sire. They are said to be, er, more concentrated areas of… of magical energy," he says, studying Arthur's face intently. Perhaps he is expecting for Arthur to fly into a rage and demand the guards haul Geoffrey away. When nothing happens, he clears his throat and continues. "I am afraid that I know little of how they behave, or what they mean to you or I, sire; however, I can tell you that the place where two or more lines cross, the sorcerers of old referred to as 'nodes', and that such nodes were coveted by them, the way a king or a general might covet a ready source of water on campaign. A wellspring of magic, you might say."

"Do you think it possible that Morgana would try to utilize one of these nodes to increase her power in a magical attack?"

Geoffrey hums thoughtfully. "If she knows of the existence of such things, then yes, it would make sense for her to do so. She would have to be capable of tapping into the energy of a node—of drawing water from the well, so to speak—but if she were able, then it would be a good strategy for her to employ."

"Then there is a chance we can predict where we might find her," says Arthur. This, _this_ , is what he had been hoping to hear. He nearly thumps his fist on the table in triumph, before realizing that Merlin is still perched on his shoulder. "My informant tells me that the eclipse will be at its darkest somewhere in the southeast of Albion. We know Morgana means to utilize its energy to conduct a powerful ritual, and that ordinarily this ritual would have been carried out by an entire team of priestesses of the Old Religion. She _may_ not need to be present during the eclipse, but I think she will want to be where she can witness it and get her timing just right. If we can find a place where the nodes and the eclipse match…"

"I see, sire," says Geoffrey, his eyes lighting with understanding and excitement. "Yes, it would be almost certain that the Lady Morgana would use such a node to augment her own abilities. If you permit me a little time, I might be able to determine the exact path of the eclipse."

"That would be ideal, Geoffrey, thank you." He nods to the map. "May I keep this for tonight?" When Geoffrey appears worried, Arthur assures him, "It won't leave my sight, or this room. I only wish to study it."

"Very well, sire," the archivist says with a bow. "I shall return in the morning to collect it."

When he is gone, Merlin-the-crow hops off Arthur's shoulder and onto the table, just long enough to orient himself toward Arthur's changing screen and take to the air again. Once he disappears, there is a frisson of _something_ that makes the hairs on Arthur's neck stand on end, and then Merlin, human once more, peeks his head around the side of the screen.

"I don't suppose you have a robe or something I could borrow?"

* * *

 

"Most powerful bloody sorcerer the world has ever seen, and he can't bring his own clothing along with him when he sneaks back to Camelot as a _crow._ "

"Shut up," says Merlin, with his mouth full of bread and grapes, "and I was a raven."

"Ravens are bigger. Intimidating. _You_ were a crow. A cute, fluffy crow."

"Fluffy?" If Arthur were looking to insult Merlin, it looks as though he's failed. "And you thought I was cute? I didn't know you liked fluffy things, Arthur."

"I—what—that's not what I—"

"Whatever you say, sire." The smile on Merlin's face won't go away, but Arthur's not entirely sure he wants it to. He's already ordered an early dinner for four, and invited Gwen and Gaius to join him for the meal. In the intervening weeks since Merlin has been gone, Gwen has settled in nicely as Gaius's errand runner and budding apprentice, so it won't be untoward for Arthur to have her in his room.

Since Merlin has been gone… "How are you recovering?" he asks, suddenly serious.

Merlin's smile shifts from something playful to something fond. "I'm doing fine, Arthur," he says. "Getting my strength back day by day. Gwaine is teaching me knife fighting, for exercise."

And that certainly comes as a bit of a surprise, knowing how useless Merlin can be with a sword. "Knives? You? He's putting a sharp blade in _your_ hand?"

Merlin only snorts, unoffended. "That's what I said when he first brought it up. I'm still a beginner, of course," he adds with a shrug, "but Gwaine says I'm coming along."

"Is that why you're eating like a pig? Is Gwaine teaching you that, too?"

"Don't be jealous." Merlin rolls his eyes. "Magic is energy, but it takes energy to use energy. Since the druids started teaching me, I've been hungry _constantly_. Gwaine says I have a hollow leg. Nesta just smiles and refills my bowl every night. She says it's perfectly normal. And Conor says my appetite will even out once I stop working quite so hard at everything."

Arthur nods. "I'm glad you're doing better. After what I did…"

With a sigh, Merlin sets his piece of bread on the table and stands up. "Arthur. It's all right."

"No, it's not. What I did to you—"

"Was perfectly understandable. And you didn't do it out of hate, right?" He pauses, looking Arthur square in the eye. "Right?"

"I've already promised, I don't hate you. I don't think I ever could."

"There you go, then."


	27. Chapter 27

When the knock comes at the door, Arthur quickly waves Merlin back behind the changing screen and rolls up the ancient map. "Enter," he calls, and watches as two servants bring in the dinner he'd ordered. They set the table efficiently, and disappear without a fuss when Arthur dismisses them.

"Do you have anything I can wear besides your night robe?" Merlin asks, once they have gone. "I mean, Gaius probably wouldn't think anything of it, but if Gwen comes too…"

"Right." Arthur almost moves toward the wardrobe a second time, then stops himself. "Well, you're the servant, you'd know better than I if there's anything I have that might fit you."

"Prat. You just can't imagine doing something for me instead of the other way around." Merlin might complain, but that doesn't stop him from coming out from behind the changing screen, still barefoot, to rummage through Arthur's wardrobe. Arthur isn't quite sure what he was expecting, but it seems very _Merlin_ of his friend to only pull out a set of Arthur's rattiest things, clothing Arthur won't go out in public in anymore because the colors have faded, or because the knees have worn.

"I usually sleep in those," he says of the trousers.

Merlin only shrugs and says, "Then you won't mind me borrowing them for tonight." Then he grins and reaches back into the wardrobe for a belt. He holds it up, waggling the buckle at Arthur along with a look that just screams _Are you sure you're not getting fat?_ ; Arthur only rolls his eyes in response.

In truth, it's good to see Merlin so at ease in his presence. Or maybe it's just being back in Camelot that is lifting the other man's spirits. There is almost no sign of the despair that had hung over him when Arthur had first visited the druid encampment. And he certainly seems to have forgiven Arthur for the unforgivable thing he'd done, not so long ago.

Arthur isn't quite sure how he'll ever be able to atone for that, really. There is lifting the ban against the existence of sorcerers and against benign magic use, of course, but how does that make up for stabbing his best friend? Arthur almost wishes that Merlin would remain angry at him, would want to punish him somehow so he could erase the guilt he still feels.

He can say none of this, however; he's never been good with feelings, and even if he were, there is a knock at his door while Merlin is still behind the changing screen.

Arthur ushers Gwen and Gaius in, and bids them take their seats at the table, then holds Gwen's chair out for her as if she were a lady, just to make her blush.

"It isn't often you call us to dine, sire; I trust from the invitation that there is nothing wrong?" asks the physician.

"Nothing wrong at all," Arthur replies. "In fact, I have some good news."

"You've had the table set for four," Gwen notices; "who is our fourth?"

"That would be the good news," says Arthur. Then he raises his voice and adds, "Hurry up, idiot. It can't be that difficult to figure out how to put on trousers."

"No, you prat," says Merlin, "it's difficult to get your belt to fit when there aren't any holes in the size I need."

Gaius gasps, "Merlin?" Gwen _squeaks_ and whirls in her seat, both hands coming up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide.

Merlin shuffles out from behind the screen, still clutching at the waist of his trousers. He looks unaccountably shy, ducking his head as he says, "Hullo, Gaius. Gwen."

In an instant, both Gaius and Gwen are on their feet, and Gaius has moved more quickly than Arthur thought he could at his age, beaming at Merlin as he takes the younger man by the shoulders. "My boy," he says, before wrapping Merlin in a hug.

Arthur looks away, feeling as if he's intruding on a private moment, especially when he hears Gaius murmur, "I thought I would never see you again." He also feels just the slightest bit of envy, if he's honest with himself. Arthur had known, of course he'd known, that Gaius cared for Merlin, but he'd never quite realized just how deep that care ran. It's obvious that Merlin is as a son to Gaius, and there's a part of Arthur that still wishes he'd ever had that sort of closeness with his own father.

No sooner has Gaius released Merlin than Gwen swoops in, flinging herself at him with her arms open wide. They both laugh, a little wetly perhaps, and then Gwen astonishes everyone in the room by planting a kiss right on Merlin's lips. Arthur would feel _immensely_ jealous, if Merlin's surprise at the action weren't obvious.

"Oh," says Gwen, pulling back. "I mean—I didn't mean to—well, I did, but I don't think that you—but if you do, oh, but then there's Arthur… Arthur!" She spins to stare at him, eyes still wide and flustered, and Arthur can't help but laugh. He holds his hand out and she comes to him willingly, and leans up to place a kiss on his cheek, proper and chaste as she should be.

"Should I leave Camelot for a few months and see if you'll welcome me back the same way?" he teases, and she shoves at him playfully.

"Don't be jealous," she says. "Merlin and I are friends, of course I missed him."

"I wasn't sure if anyone would," admits Merlin, coming around to the table as they all take their seats again. "I mean, Arthur told me you know about the…" He trails off and wiggles his fingers in the air. "…you know."

"I do," says Gwen. "Did Arthur tell you what I did when he told us what _he_ did?"

"Something about wearing a bruise for a few days after?" Merlin asks, with a sidelong glance at Arthur and the beginnings of a mischievous smile.

 _I deserved it_ , Arthur wants to say, but that would only bring the mood down, so instead he says, "Yes, I'm pleased to say that our Guinevere hits harder than you do, Merlin. She's probably better with a sword, too."

"Oh, probably," Merlin agrees, and they all begin uncovering food trays and serving one another. Merlin takes enormous portions for himself, but only after making sure everyone else has gotten as much as they wanted.

"Are you really going to eat all that?" Arthur asks.

"I told you, I'm hungry _all the time_ now," Merlin complains. "It's ridiculous. I can't wait for this to go away like Conor says it will."

"Ah, so the druids _are_ training you, then," says Gaius. Arthur is surprised at first, but then realizes he's being a fool. Of course Gaius would know things like this, he's been a part of Camelot's court since before Arthur was born and the Purge began. "I had hoped that they would."

"They wanted to. They've wanted to since I showed up, I think. It was convincing me to take them up on their offer that was the hard part," Merlin admits. "But once I did, well…" He shrugs. "It feels good. Using my magic, being able to really stretch it and see what I can do." He glances again at Arthur, but if he's looking for discomfort, he isn't going to find it. It will probably take Arthur a bit to get used to actually seeing magic used in front of him, but he's not afraid of it, or of Merlin.

"I don't understand," says Gwen. "What does the magic have to do with you being hungry? Do the druids not have enough food to go around? I mean no offense against them; it's only, I know they're not wealthy."

"It isn't that," Merlin explains. "It's like the knights, when they spend all their time training. They're using a lot of energy, and it works up an appetite. I'm training now, too, only in magic instead, and it leaves me just as ready to devour a donkey as any of Arthur's knights."

"I see."

"Not as thickheaded, though."

Arthur glares, and Gwen covers a laugh, while Gaius only shakes his head in fond exasperation, and all is right with the world. For a few minutes, conversation drops away as they eat, with only occasional requests for a refill of someone's drink or to pass a platter of food. Merlin tucks into his meal like a man half-starved, while Gaius watches him indulgently, a fond, almost reminiscent smile on his face. The physician doesn't eat much, for his part, and when he's finished he pushes his plate back and reaches for his goblet.

"I know you don't need me to tell you this, Merlin," he says, "but it is very dangerous for you to be in Camelot right now. The servants hear rumors, and there is gossip about you, and about why you and Gwaine really left. Why did you come back?"

"And how did you get in?" asks Gwen. "I know I never heard a thing, and it's almost impossible to sneak into the palace without being seen by _someone_."

"I was in disguise," says Merlin with a wink, and Gwen bursts into giggles.

"Is that why you're wearing Arthur's clothing now?"

Merlin's mouth is still full, so Arthur answers for him. "He flew," he says. "As a crow."

"Flew?" Gwen exclaims. "You're having me on. That's hardly fair, Arthur, I really want to know."

"No," says Merlin, "he's telling the truth. The druids are teaching me all kinds of things, and one of them is shape-changing. I really turned into a raven—"

"—crow," coughs Arthur.

"A _raven_ ," Merlin insists with a glare, "and I really flew here. It was brilliant!"

"So no one saw you come in," Gaius presses.

"I literally have not set foot anywhere in the castle except for Arthur's chambers," says Merlin. Then he grins. "Well, and the roof above his window. But I promise, no one has seen me who would know what to look for. I was just another crow."

"Told you," says Arthur.

"Raven!" Merlin quickly corrects himself, but Arthur has no intention of changing his mind; Merlin can insist till he's blue in the face and Arthur will still maintain that Merlin was a crow.

Gwen is laughing at them both.

"You still haven't answered my question," Gaius reminds them gently, and Merlin's teasing cuts off.

"I'm sorry, Gaius. What was the question?"

"He wanted to know why you've come, idiot," Arthur reminds him. "Which is a very good question, actually."

Merlin rubs at the back of his neck before reaching for his goblet and toying with it. "Well, partly I wanted to come back because I missed you all," he admits. "But also… Arthur, the eclipse is in only two weeks. I thought it would be good to see if you'd learned anything about Morgana's plans, that sort of thing, and maybe work out a plan of our own to stop her."

Arthur nods decisively. "We don't know where she is yet, but I've been reading up on magic, and _you_ should be able to do something for us on that front."

Merlin blinks. "I might be able to," he says, "but I didn't think you would want me to."

Arthur can't help the grimace at that; he's more than earned Merlin's lack of trust. "I know you have no reason to believe me, but I'm not afraid of what you can do," he says.

"You may not be, but sometimes I am," Merlin replies. He looks down at his plate, pushing his food around with his fork, and then back at Arthur with eyes that seem suddenly older, as if Merlin—his gormless, naive, cheerful best friend Merlin—has somehow lived through more than he should have, and seen too much. "I've killed for you before, Arthur, with my magic. It's a fair bet that I will again someday."

With a nod, Arthur leans back in his seat, mulling that over. "I trust you," he says finally. "My knights kill for me, too, after all, when the situation warrants it. I can't imagine you as a cold-blooded murderer, or a monster, or power-mad." Or any of the other things that Morgana has become since turning on them, Arthur thinks.

"I've been told before that I'm not a monster," says Merlin, "but I'm no knight, either."

Gwen leans in then, her expression earnest. "Maybe not, but you could be," she says. "You're brave enough. Gaius has told me and Arthur a little of the things you've done for him, for us. For me," she adds, with tears beginning to well up in her eyes. "For Camelot."

Merlin takes a deep breath, but looks away and says nothing. Gaius reaches over and pats his arm wordlessly.

"You've been here all this time," she continues, "protecting us, and all the while having to do so in secret. Being looked down upon because no one knew all that you've really done, and having to play the fool rather than claim any glory for yourself."

Now Merlin looks up, sharply. "I don't do it for glory," he says.

"No, of course not, but don't you see? You're more noble than half the knights in the army, just for that."

"You've saved my life more times than half of them _combined_ ," Arthur points out. "Through battles and assassination attempts, and curses, and God only knows what else." He takes a deep breath and continues, "I'm going to tell you something I've never said before, but I want you to know that I mean it wholeheartedly: Merlin, _thank you_."

Merlin begins to blink rapidly, and then Arthur sees a single tear break free and drip down his cheek. He looks away to give Merlin a moment to compose himself, standing up and crossing over to his desk.

Arthur still has that crossbow bolt with the curled-up head, hidden away in his desk drawer. He pulls it out now, and brings it back to the table. "I keep this," he says, "to remind me of everything you've done for me. And how I repaid you for it."

Merlin takes a shaky breath, wiping at his face with the back of one hand. "Arthur, I already told you—"

"I know," he interrupts. "I know you've forgiven me. But I still haven't forgiven myself. Nor will I, until I can figure out a way to bring you home."


	28. Chapter 28

"You'll have to defeat Morgana first, sire," says Gaius, ever the voice of reason.

"And for that, we have to find her," says Arthur. "Can you do that, Merlin? I know it's something that magic is able to do, but I don't know if you've learned it yet."

"You mean scry for her?" At Arthur's nod, Merlin bites his lip. "I _could_ , but I'd be concerned about alerting her to the fact that we know she's up to something."

"Do you think she'd be able to tell if you were searching for her?" Gwen asks. She glances back and forth between the other three. "I mean, maybe I shouldn't be part of this discussion, I really don't know anything about… about magic."

"No, it's quite all right," Arthur says. "You might have a different perspective that would help us."

"Morgana is strong," says Merlin. "And she's a Seer. Whether or not she could sense me… I just don't know, Arthur. I don't have any way to know until I try, I guess."

"What about her army, if she has one? Would she be able to hide them?"

"She might be." Merlin chews on his lip for a second, then shakes his head. "She might be, but it would be a whole lot of effort for no reason, to her. She doesn't know I have magic, and unless she's been spying on you, she won't know that you have any idea of her capabilities. I think just hiding them physically from your scouts and spies is all she would bother to do, if that."

"All right, then, when you get back to the druid camp, can you look for her, and maybe send Gwaine to tell me what you find out?"

At this, Merlin frowns a little. "You don't want me to look for her right now?"

Arthur blinks, not having expected that. "Can you do that? I thought you'd need some kind of special equipment, or… or a sacred location, or something."

Merlin's frown clears, and he shakes his head with a little smile. "You _are_ learning. It'd help, sure, having those things, but I shouldn't need them unless Morgana is actively trying to hide herself and her troops. All I need is a bowl of water, a lit flame, and…" He glances over to the salt cellar sitting on the table. "A pinch of that will do."

A bowl of water; Arthur's washbasin should do nicely, so he gets up and brings it over to the table, along with the pitcher sitting next to it. Then he drops the bar across the door, to make sure no one will disturb them.

"Can we watch?" he hears Gwen ask timidly. "Only, I don't want to distract you, but I've never really thought I could see magic that wasn't trying to kill somebody."

Arthur looks over his shoulder to see Merlin shrug a little with one shoulder; the oversized tunic he's wearing slips off and he tugs it back into place. "I guess so," he says. "It'll just be me staring at a bowl of water, though; nothing really exciting."

"Well. Most of the exciting things seem to have been really dangerous," says Gwen with a smile. "I don't mind, really. If you don't."

"No, it's fine," Merlin assures her. He glances over at Arthur, seeming to know what is on his mind even though he hadn't planned to say anything. "You can watch too, if you want."

The three of them make room on the table, and Merlin pulls the washbasin over in front of him. He pours the water into the basin, and says, " _Waeter._ " To the water, he adds a pinch of salt. " _Eorth_ ," he intones; then he draws the candles near so that their flames reflect in the water. " _Bael, ond_ _…_ " he sighs, blowing his breath across the water so that it ripples. " _…lyft_."

The water in the bowl goes completely still, clear as a mirror.

" _Unhelath me herigea Morgana_ ," says Merlin, and then a flicker of gold flashes across his eyes, a little fire of his own seeming to burn within him. There is a frown line between his brows, as he concentrates, but it smooths gradually, and Merlin's eyes fall shut in a slow, slow blink. When he opens them again, they are glowing gold once more, and he leans closer to the water.

Whatever he sees there, it is invisible to Arthur. He glances out of the corner of his eyes toward Gwen, but she is studying Merlin's face more than anything else. Gaius, however, has leaned forward as well, his gaze intent upon whatever is in the basin. Arthur remembers the physician telling him that he had once practiced sorcery as well, though it had been long ago.

" _Unhelath me herigea Morgana,_ " says Merlin again, and his eyes dart back and forth across the water. His eyes narrow and he scowls, leaning in and then back again, then pressing his lips together into a thin line. His nostrils flare as if he's seen something to anger him, before he nods in satisfaction. He props his elbows on the table and covers his mouth with his hands, intently studying whatever he sees all the while.

"Odin's livery," he murmurs. Arthur shouldn't be surprised. The man will never forgive Arthur for the death of his son, and he can't really say that he blames him.

"How many?" he can't help but ask, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Merlin's concentration.

Merlin only shakes his head, however. "Thousands, I think; there are others there. Mercenaries. They wear no livery and have little discipline. A hard fight for Camelot, but still a distraction from her real gambit."

"The ritual?"

Merlin nods, never taking his eyes off the water. " _Unhelath me Morgana Pendragon_ ," he says, then repeats it in a whisper. His eye continue to burn with starlight, and for a long moment there is only silence. Merlin leans forward again, then smiles grimly when, Arthur assumes, he spots her. It's an unsettling expression on his friend's face, ordinarily so open and kind. "Hello, Morgana," he says softly. A moment passes, then another, and his golden eyes grow sad. "How you've changed."

"Is she well?" asks Gwen.

"Damaged in heart and mind," Merlin replies distantly; "her magic twists with hate and fear, and the earth recoils from it. She worships dark gods in dark places, and plans dark deeds." He passes one hand over the water and the gold in his eyes flashes again. "That's it," he says softly. "Show me where you are."

This time it is Gaius who leans in, eyes narrowed. "I know that landmark," he says suddenly. "Though I have not traveled there in many years. Maidstone."

"Maidstone," repeats Gwen. "Where is that?"

"Does she see you?" asks Arthur.

"No," Merlin says. "No, I don't think so. But we'd better go, just to be safe. _Ic the thancie_ ," he intones, and passes his hand over the water once more. With a sigh, the gold in his eyes fades, and he blinks a few times as if just waking from a short nap. "It's done," he says, moving the candelabra back to its former position. "The water is safe," he adds, glancing up at Arthur with a little smile. "It's just a medium for the spell, it's not… it's not _magic water_ or anything. Bit salty."

Gwen grins at him. "We'll be sure not to drink out of the prince's washbasin," she says, and Merlin smiles back at her, easy and open. Arthur's not sure he's really seen that expression on his friend's face in a long time.

"Gaius, you said you recognized the landmark?" he asks, bringing them back to topic.

"I did, sire. Maidstone. It is a small village, called by that name for hundreds of years. There are several legends about how it got its name, but most concern the standing stone outside the village a little way. That is the landmark I recognized. I believe it is supposed to be a woman turned to stone, though reports vary as to whether she was cursed by an evil sorcerer, struck down by the gods for her own evil, or did it to herself in grief or out of fear—lost lover or an unwanted suitor, that sort of thing. I'm sure you know that songs will romanticize stories until much of the truth of them is lost."

"It would take a lot of magic to turn a person into stone, wouldn't it?" asks Gwen, looking to Merlin.

"I'd have to ask the druids to be sure, but yeah, transformation like that is pretty strong stuff, usually."

"Move the plates out of the way," says Arthur, and he pulls out the map that Geoffrey had loaned him earlier that evening. With Merlin's help, he unrolls the crackling parchment and weights down the corners. The red ley lines seem to leap off the page in the candlelight, and the gilded nodes gleam as if lit from within.

"A ley line map," Gaius breathes; his eyebrows are climbing his forehead in surprise. "I never would have guessed that something like this could have survived the Purge."

"Geoffrey was quite nervous about letting it out of his sight," Arthur admits.

"I can well imagine."

"Is it magic?" asks Gwen. Arthur looks to Merlin for the answer; he hadn't really thought of that possibility.

"The map isn't," he explains. "Ley lines or sort of like rivers and lakes, only made of magic. This map shows where some of the bigger ley lines are—those are like the rivers. Where they cross, these circles here, those are like lakes or wells. The druids call them 'nodes'."

"Do you think Maidstone has a node?"

"That's what I'm looking for," says Arthur distractedly. He traces one of the red lines down, toward the southeast of Albion. His finger lands on a gold circle, and he leans forward to squint at the label. " _Nodi Virgo,_ " he reads.

"Node of the Maiden," supplies Gaius.

"That's it," nods Arthur decisively. "That's where she's going to be."

"That's where she _is_ ," correct Merlin. "I can't see the future, like she can. I can only see what is, and right at this moment, she's at Maidstone, preparing."

"What _exactly_ did you see?" Arthur asks. "Speaking of preparing. There might be some clue there that can help us better prepare against _her_."

"You couldn't see what was in the water?"

Arthur snorts. "I don't have _magic_ , Merlin, don't be ridiculous."

"I couldn't see anything, either," Gwen adds. "Gaius could."

"And may I say, my boy, that was an especially well-done spell, to allow another person with magic to view those images. With a little alteration, it might be possible to share what you see with those who do not possess the talent, but that's something to think about for later."

Merlin nods, taking that in. "She was kneeling in front of a stone altar," he says. "Or at least, it looked like an altar to me?" He glances over at Gaius, who nods.

"I agree with that interpretation, yes."

"There were two bowls of smoldering herbs upon the altar, throwing smoke into the air, and she was dipping her fingers into a dark liquid in front of it, and daubing it onto her arms and face."

"That could be a step in a ritual purification," Gaius suggests. "As a priestess, she must show humility by taking the proper steps in order to present herself to the gods and receive what she asks for."

"I've never known Morgana to be humble in all my life," says Arthur. He's trying for a joke, but it doesn't go over very well.

"You're not a god," tries Gwen, smiling nervously.

"However much you might have acted like it," adds Merlin. One corner of his mouth turns up; Arthur appreciates their effort.

"So how do we approach her?" asks Gaius, and they all sober once more.

"If we could catch her before the eclipse, we could prevent the ritual entirely," says Arthur. "I could send knights, or go after her myself…"

Merlin shakes his head. "She'll have hidden herself, for certain. Or set up defenses and traps to keep an army away. Anyway, if you go after her, you leave Camelot vulnerable to an invasion from Odin's kingdom."

"If I stay here, then we leave her free to do whatever she likes with that ritual. Upsetting all of destiny, or whatever the druids said."

"You couldn't take her in a fight," says Merlin gently. "I'm sorry, but it's true. You know she won't fight fair. But if we split up—"

"Then what about you? Maybe you can take her in a magic fight, but if she has even one bodyguard, or, or an archer that you don't spot in time, you're done for."

Merlin takes a deep breath. "Gwaine has promised to watch over me in your stead," he says.

Gaius speaks up then, saying, "Merlin told me a bit about what happened on your quest to the Perilous Lands, where he and Gwaine followed you. He said that the guardian at the bridge called you all Courage, Strength, and Magic." Arthur presses his lips together; no one was supposed to know that he hadn't succeeded on his own. "Let Strength protect Magic, sire," says Gaius quietly, "while Courage defends Camelot. Just this once."

Arthur turns away, frowning. He hates it—hates the idea of letting someone else face Morgana, hates the idea of it being Merlin, and _hates_ the idea of leaving his best friend's safety in another man's hands—but he fears Gaius may be right.

"And if anything goes wrong?" he asks quietly. "If Merlin should fall because I'm not there?"

"I am not as strong as Merlin," Gaius says, "and I am out of practice besides; however, with your permission, there is the possibility that I might still be able to watch over their battle and let you know what happens. If the worst happens."

 _If the worst happens._ Meaning, if Merlin should die. But then Arthur remembers some of what Gwaine told him, bits about the druids' prophecy that he suspects even Merlin doesn't know yet, about Merlin's supposed immortality.

What is the worst that can happen, to a man who cannot die? Arthur shudders, fearing the answer.


	29. Chapter 29

Arthur hates it, but Gaius is right; the best way to defeat this threat is to tackle both fronts simultaneously. Arthur can defeat Odin and his army of mercenaries, even if he doesn't have his father's support; he'll have to trust that Merlin and his magic can defeat Morgana.

He just hopes that Odin doesn't decide to employ any sorcerers himself, or that Morgana doesn't decide to hire a bodyguard of mercenaries.

"All right," he says finally, taking a deep breath. "We each know what we must do. Gaius, I'm not going to risk your position as physician when we'll need someone to tend the wounded, but after our part is done and the battle is over, I will definitely want you to keep an eye on Merlin's fight with Morgana. Gwen, of course, you'll be assisting Gaius in the infirmary."

"I can cover for him elsewhere if I need to," Gwen replies. "I mean, not as a physician, but if people ask where he is."

"You're Gaius's apprentice now?" Merlin asks.

"Errand runner, more like," she answers bashfully. "But I'm learning a little. It's useful, aye?"

"It is. I'm glad for you," says Merlin, and he sounds like he means it.

"All right," Arthur repeats. "We know what to do. Now it's time to do it. It's time to prepare for war."

There is little to say after that; Merlin gives Gaius and Gwen each one last long, tight hug, and promises to return in two weeks' time if he can, before he steps away from them and strips off Arthur's old tunic. Gwen blushes and glances away, but by the time she's glanced back, Merlin is reciting a spell under his breath, his eyes are flashing gold, and in a sort of shiver of the air, there is a crow fluttering up onto Arthur's dining table as his trousers collapse to the floor, empty.

"Oh," says Gwen. Her eyes are wide, and Arthur can't blame her.

"Gwen," says Merlin-the-crow, shaking his head and making his feathers stand on end.

"Well done, my boy," says Gaius, and Merlin preens, literally, ducking his head under one wing to pull at the feathers there and smooth them. He straightens up quickly enough, blinking and cocking his head. Gaius only chuckles and shakes his head fondly. "Travel safely, Merlin."

"I will."

Gwen reaches out to stroke Merlin's breast, just once, then smiles tremulously. "Arthur was right, you know," she says. "You're really not a raven, are you?"

Crows don't really have facial expressions, but Arthur can still tell that Merlin is indignant by the way he draws himself up to glare at him. Him, and not Gwen; that's hardly fair. "Ha!"

Arthur steps forward. "All right, before we get into this argument again, it's time for you to go," he says. He holds out his arm for Merlin to step onto. "Will you be all right flying in the dark?"

Merlin bobs his head, then flares his tail and wings a little for balance as Arthur brings him to the window and opens it with his free hand. Before Merlin can take off, though, Arthur brings him up close to his face and ducks his head to say softly, "Be safe. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you, and I wasn't there to stop it."

Merlin doesn't say anything, but he does take a little of Arthur's hair into his beak, pulling on it gently before letting go. Then he sidles down Arthur's arm and onto his fist, and cocks his head at Arthur.

"Safe travels, Merlin," he says, then tosses the crow gently out the window. It's just like launching a hawk on a hunt.

He watches at the window as Merlin takes flight, and continues watching until he is a mere speck, lost to the gathering darkness.

* * *

 

It's nearly dawn, and Gwaine has been up all night. He'd paced in his tent for a while, not wanting to disturb the rest of the camp with his fretting, and not really wanting them to see it, either. The druids all seem to think that nothing bad could ever happen to their Emrys, but Gwaine knows better. Hadn't he brought Merlin here in the first place with a hole in his belly? Now they're all gone to bed, and Gwaine is sitting on a log around the central fire, whittling a stick down to nothing in the dim light from the embers. He's not sure how long he's been there, but the toes of his boots are covered in shavings.

Merlin's been gone for the entire day, transformed into a crow and flown off to Camelot. Anything could have happened. He might have been caught there, running around looking for Arthur after having revealed himself as a sorcerer. A knight might have recognized him. Hell, a hawk or an eagle might have decided that Merlin looked tasty as a crow. Would he have any of that form's survival instincts? Would he listen to those instincts any better than he does as a human?

Just as Gwaine is considering pitching his stick into the fire and pacing some more, a ghostly shape in white glides into the clearing and past his head. Gwaine's on his feet in an instant, watching as the owl banks smoothly before it can disappear into the trees again, and wings silently straight back toward Gwaine. Almost without thinking, he slips on the gauntlet he's had waiting for Merlin's return and holds up his fist.

The owl lands neatly, its wings making the barest brush of sound as it settles, before gazing at Gwaine fearlessly with inscrutable gold eyes. Feathered talons bite deep into the leather of Gwaine's gauntlet.

"Weren't you a crow when you left?" he says. The owl bobs its head and blinks once. "Come on, then," says Gwaine, not bothering to hide his relieved grin, "let's get you inside."

The tent flap is barely closed behind them when the owl pushes off of Gwaine's fist to glide to the floor. Halfway down, there's a shiver in the air and the faintest limning of golden light, barely visible even in the dark, and the owl is Merlin again, naked and swaying on his feet. He turns, a little drunkenly, and the first words out of his mouth are, "Is there food? I nearly caught a mouse on my way here." He grins, then his knees buckle. Gwaine only barely manages to catch him in time.

"Are you all right? No, what am I saying, of course you're not, look at the state of you." He's just about to drop Merlin on his cot and run for Nesta, but the other man is shaking his head and gripping Gwaine's arms firmly.

"No, I'm fine," Merlin insists, "just tired. And hungry."

"You can barely stand."

"Lightheaded from the change, is all. I promise, I'm fine. Is there food?"

Gwaine walks him to his cot and sets him down anyway, before finding a loaf of bread and a couple of apples. Merlin doesn't even bother covering himself with a blanket, just reaches for the food like a man starved for weeks, taking an enormous bite from the apple as soon as it's in his hand. Gwaine thinks about pointing out to Merlin that he's still naked as they day he was born, but ah, well. Gwaine has lived with the man, bathed him while he was sick and wounded, and lost most of his own modesty a long time ago. That, and just generally being around the druids, has left both him and Merlin pretty immune to body-shyness where each other is concerned.

Instead, he lets Merlin eat in peace for a few moments, waiting to speak until it looks like the other man is slowing down a bit. "You didn't answer my question before," he says finally.

"I was a crow when I left Camelot, same as when I left here," Merlin explains, talking with his mouth full, "but then it got dark and I couldn't see very well. Plus the crow's instincts kept pushing me to find a tree to roost in for the night. Then it occurred to me to be an owl instead, and that was much better. It's amazing what I can _hear_ in that form, Gwaine! And the flight is so quiet! You can hear a crow's wing beats, but an owl is nearly silent. It's… incredible."

"I'm glad you had fun, then," says Gwaine with a smile. "And you were the top predator in the sky, I reckon, so you weren't likely to face any trouble."

"No, no trouble at all. Although I did start getting hungry, _again_ , before I was even halfway back. Did I mention the mice?"

Gwaine can't help the chuckle that escapes, and can't resist ruffling his friend's hair. "Did you succeed, then?" he asks. "Manage to find Arthur?"

"I did," says Merlin with a proud grin. "And he brought up Gwen and Gaius to his room for dinner, so I could visit. _And_ we may have worked out a strategy for how to handle Morgana in two weeks' time."

"Sounds like you were productive. I'm happy to hear it."

"Believe me, me too. But," he adds, "talking about it will have to wait till morning." He emphasizes his point with a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Merlin, it nearly _is_ morning."

"Till after I've had some sleep, then," Merlin corrects himself with a shrug. "Camelot is a long ways off, and now that I'm not an owl anymore, I'm tired."

Gwaine wishes he could resist anything his friend says, but he's sure it's obvious to anyone who pays attention that he'll do anything Merlin asks. "Get some rest, then," he says. He's been up all night keeping an eye out, and now that the danger has passed, Gwaine can admit that he's feeling the lack of sleep himself. "We can talk more once it's daylight."

* * *

 

The druids are their usual serene selves when they see Merlin emerge from his tent later that morning, once again acting as if they were completely certain that nothing bad could ever possibly happen to the Most Powerful Sorcerer Ever To Live. It's a little irritating, if Gwaine is being honest, but he at least knows to keep it to himself.

The sun is well past rising; the camp has already come to life around them, with even the eldest druid looking alert and spry, and not a single child still fussy or sleep-mussed. Nesta hands them both a bowl of the morning's porridge. "It is good that you have returned, Merlin," she says. She, at least, has gotten the message that Merlin doesn't like to be called "Emrys". "Did you enjoy your time as a crow?"

"I did, but I think my time as an owl was even better. I had to fly back at night," he explains, seeing her look of surprise.

Conor comes up to them then, frowning. "Owl? I don't think I taught you that spell."

"Was it a different spell?" Merlin asks. "I thought all transformation was the same. You taught me to feel the magic and ask it for what I wanted; I wanted something that could fly at night, so I turned into an owl."

"Barn owl," agrees Gwaine. "Ghostly when he flew in over the fire last night."

"I assume you had to pause and be human for a moment?" asks Conor.

Now it's Merlin's turn to frown. "No, I was still a crow. But I could feel the magic just fine in that form, so I asked it for what I needed, and then," he shrugs, "I was flapping owl wings instead."

Conor blinks, and Gwaine wonders what he's thinking, but then he smiles wide and says, "Well done, then. I'm happy to see that our lessons are taking root for you."

"Thanks," says Merlin.

The three of them sit down and eat together, Merlin as always inhaling twice as much as the rest of them, scraping his bowl and smiling sheepishly when Nesta hands him another without a word. Gwaine listens as he and Conor talk about feeling the magic of the earth and sky, becoming one with it, and asking rather than demanding. Apparently there are different schools of magic, and different approaches to the Old Religion, that Gwaine has never heard of before.

"Morgana and her teacher, Morgause, think of magic as a weapon or a tool shaped and wielded by the strength of their will. Power is important to them, how _much_ magic a person possesses or can control at a time. But magic resists them somewhat, wanting to remain in its natural state, and they must impose their will upon it and fight it to make it do as they want. What _we_ teach you, on the other hand, is about using what you have, no matter how little, to effect change in a more subtle manner. They demand; we ask. Where they use force, we bend and weave. The fact that you do have a great deal of magic only means that you can do more with it. Change into an owl from a crow, without even thinking that you might need to be a human first." Conor smiles again.

"But won't I need to use magic the way Morgana does in order to counter her?" Merlin asks. It's a good question, to Gwaine's mind.

Conor, though, is shaking his head. "If you want to go on the offensive, some of what they do might work for you," he explains, "but for defense, simply feeling the shape of their spells and unraveling them, or altering them, will be enough. If I throw a ball of fire at you, and you turn it into a rain shower… well, then it's harmless, isn't it, and you can put your energy into doing other things. You will still be at full strength when she has exhausted herself, fighting the way a priestess fights."

"I never realized that there were so many different ways to _do_ magic," says Merlin. "I just thought it was all different spells to shape it."

"That's one approach," allows Conor, "and it's not wrong, but it's not always efficient, do you see?"

"Yeah, I think so." Merlin goes quiet, finishing up his second bowl of porridge before he asks, "Do you think I can defeat Morgana? As I am, now, half-trained?"

"You're more trained than you think, Emrys, despite only learning with us for a few months. We've been pushing you to bring you up to a level that many of us would only achieve after years of study. When you leave us, hopefully you will keep to your lessons and learn more about the subtleties that we have not had time to teach you."

"Yes, but can I _stop_ her?"

Conor looks him over, then nods slowly. "I wouldn't get cocky when you face her next, but aye. You can."

* * *

 

After breakfast, they seek out Derwen, and Gwaine listens as Merlin relates everything that he learned yesterday from Arthur. It's not good; an army marching on Camelot as a distraction, while Morgana works her ritual elsewhere. If she succeeds in "nudging the pendulum", as the druids have been calling it, then destiny will sway in her favor, meaning that Odin's men will likely be able to take Camelot.

"But we know where she's going to be, at least," says Merlin. "I was able to scry for her; she wasn't guarding against it that I could tell, and Gaius recognized the landmarks around her. She's at a place called Maidstone. And Arthur had an old ley line map, and there's a node there, too."

Derwen nods. "Are you quite certain?" she asks. "Because we will commit ourselves to your cause, Emrys. We will go with you when you face Morgana."

"Wait. You will?" asks Gwaine. "I thought the druids were peaceful."

The older woman nods again. "We will not fight. We cannot defeat her ourselves, and it would waste our lives to try. But we can support Emrys in other ways, through rituals of our own. We will come."

"The eclipse is in two weeks," says Conor.

"We will alert the camp today," Derwen replies. "And we will take the secret paths rather than traveling visibly. With luck, we will arrive where we are needed in three days' time."


	30. Chapter 30

The druids' movement is delayed a little, because it turns out that Maidstone is deep in Saxon-occupied territory, and there are extra precautions they want to take. Gwaine can't blame them. He isn't sure what Morgana is thinking, setting up to hold a demanding ritual there, unless perhaps the Saxons have a different view of magic than the people of Albion do. Either that, or she is more desperate than she's letting on, forced to conduct her ritual at the heart of the eclipse no matter what enemies might surround her.

Worst case, Gwaine figures, she'll have recruited Saxons to protect her. It's not a scenario he likes, but it's also not one he can discount, either. He makes sure to mention it to Derwen and Arawn; they have already said that they won't fight, and Gwaine can't imagine that they'd want to move their entire tribe, women and children and all, into hostile territory.

"We have had dealings with the Saxons before," Derwen tells him, "both good and bad. For the most part, they leave us be because they know we are not a threat. Sometimes they trade with us." Then she frowns. "And sometimes they try to buy and sell us. They do not have the same hatred of us that Camelot has instilled in the surrounding kingdoms, but we cannot say that they respect us, either."

"So does that mean you're going to stay away, or not?" he asks.

Derwen tucks her hands into the sleeves of her robe and smiles serenely. He's beginning to really hate it when she does that. "We will help Emrys, as far as we can, while still protecting our own," she says. "You need not fear for us, or for him."

"Unless you've seen the outcome of this battle, I'm going to worry for Merlin anyway," retorts Gwaine. "And even if you have seen it. You know I don't trust to destiny to sort everything out; look how Merlin's supposed destiny has already treated him."

"Your caution is understandable," says Derwen. "But, I think, all will be well."

Yes, well, Gwaine will have to wait until he sees it before he'll believe that. He spends their remaining few days sharpening his blades, drilling Merlin extra hard on knife fighting, and making sure his armor hasn't rusted into uselessness in the months that they've been with the druids. He hasn't worn it even once since he arrived.

Luckily, Merlin is there to help him with it, using his magic to repair straps and get the joints back into order, polishing the rust, and, Gwaine suspects, working enchantments into the metal when he thinks Gwaine isn't looking.

"Don't wear yourself out on that," he says, and Merlin looks up sheepishly.

"I'm not," he says. When Gwaine only raises an eyebrow in response, he laughs a little. "I'm really not," he insists; "it's actually almost habit now to work a little magic while I clean someone's armor, after years of repairing Arthur's. I hope that's all right."

It's fine with Gwaine, really, though he is curious. "What kind of enchantments are you putting on it, then?" he asks.

"Little things, mostly," Merlin replies. "Protection charms, things to turn a blade away or cause an arrow to veer off course… stuff to strengthen the armor so it will take a blow better. Um, reinforcing the links in the maille. Little things like that. But they add up."

"I'll take any advantage I can get," says Gwaine. "And thank you for it, too."

"No need for thanks. You'll be watching my back, yeah? Least I can do is watch yours this way."

"I appreciate it anyway. You're a good friend, Merlin."

Merlin ducks his head in that endearing way he has, as if he's not quite sure he deserves whatever compliment he's just received. "So are you," is all he says.

* * *

 

In the end, the druids decide to split their camp in two; the kids and their caretakers will stay where they are, with a token number of sorcerers to protect them, while the rest of the sorcerers including Conor and Nesta will go with Merlin and Gwaine to support them. Gwaine still isn't clear on just what sort of support they'll provide, given that none of them intend to fight or confront Morgana directly—apparently that's Merlin's job alone—but he's still grateful that they're not going to leave Merlin to do this with no aid at all. Maybe they just plan to patch Merlin up if he falls, or hide him from Morgana, or hell, turn her into a bird or something. Gwaine can't even begin to guess, so he decides it's not his concern and leaves it be.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Gwaine says to Derwen. He's already tossed the kids into the air and caught them one last time, and exchanged farewells with those druids he'd gotten to know while they stayed here. It's been a peaceful interlude, but for better or worse, Gwaine is pretty sure he and Merlin won't be coming back.

"Thank you for bringing Emrys to us," says Derwen. "It brought joy to our hearts to meet him, after so long awaiting his birth."

"Right," says Gwaine. Their prophecies. He's never been just Merlin to them.

Luckily, he and Derwen have already had this conversation, and she doesn't see a need to rehash it. "Safe travels to you," she says, "until we meet again."

"And to you."

And that's that. Gwaine's armor is on, minus the Camelot cloak he'd thrown at Arthur's feet; his blades are sharpened, and he's carrying more of them than a proper knight probably should. His bedroll and things are packed, his horse is groomed, and Merlin-the-crow is perched on his shoulder. Merlin's horse is saddled and laden with all their belongings.

They're as ready as they'll ever be.

Their group followed by family and well-wishers, files down to the bathing grotto, where Merlin has practiced his magic with Conor and so many other druids from near and far, and where Gwaine has been told that there is a ley line, hovering invisibly just over the water. Merlin had explained to him that they could follow it almost all the way to Maidstone, stopping a few miles out because it was dangerous to get too close to a node while traveling the secret paths. A few miles out should also keep them hidden from Morgana, so all in all, Gwaine has no complaint with their plan. The fact that they will make a several day journey in just a few hours is a definite bonus.

Merlin _crrs_ in his ear, softly, and then Gwaine feels a tingle down the back of his neck and feels the hairs on his arms stand on end. Bit by bit, sound fades away, and then color, until all is gray and silent, and Gwaine imagines that they have stepped between the worlds once more. In front of him, the ley line glows a ghostly blue, stretching left to right as far as his eyes can see.

He wonders what they look like from the outside, to the people not traveling today. Are they transparent, like ghosts? Are they invisible? He'll have to ask Merlin sometime.

In front him, in ones and twos, the druids begin to travel to the right. Gwaine, leading his horse, follows.

* * *

 

With more sorcerers to share the burden of the magic, and fewer people and animals without it, there is no need for the party to stop to rest along the way. Gwaine can't say he's used to walking this much, but he's done it before, and usually alone. Traveling with the druids and Merlin is no hardship, even if the lack of color and sound is still just as eerie as it was the first time he did this.

They come out several hours later on a hill, thick with trees, sunlight filtering in from the edge of the forest just a little ways ahead of them. No one speaks, and Gwaine can feel the skin-prickling tingle of nearby magic as several of them look around, checking for anyone who might have spotted them, getting their bearings in unfamiliar and potentially hostile territory.

Conor and a woman Gwaine hasn't been introduced to confer—at least, Gwaine thinks they're conferring, in the Silent Speech, given the way their eye contact lingers uncomfortably long—then she raises her arm and leads the group back into the woods, a little ways off the ley line, until they come to a clearing. There is a cairn of stones there, overgrown with weeds, but as Gwaine watches, the druids pull back the stones one by one to reveal a tiny well, barely big enough to fit a bucket down. There are only two dozen people in their camp, so this should still be enough water for them all.

No one speaks aloud, yet the druids all move in concert, setting up tents, gathering firewood, and pulling some kind of netting from their packs which they drape over the tree branches and their tents. Gwaine frowns at it until some of the men start weaving leafy branches and vines through the netting, and then he understands.

Here in Saxon territory, the camouflage is probably a good idea, as is the silence, even if it does mean that he's left out of the conversations.

Merlin begins to sidle down from Gwaine's shoulder, and Gwaine holds his arm out to make it easier. When he reaches Gwaine's fist, Merlin spreads his wings and leaps into the air, disappearing above the canopy before Gwaine is able to protest.

When he looks down again, Conor has walked up to him; the other man leans in close and says quietly, "He'll be back. He told me he wants to scout the area and see if he can find where Morgana is hiding, what Saxon camps or villages may be nearby, that sort of thing."

"Will he be all right?"

Conor nods. "He's learned to mask his magic, so even if the witch sees him, she will think him an ordinary crow."

Gwaine can only hope that Conor is right.

Fortunately, he doesn't have long to worry; he sets himself to work unpacking the bundles from their two horses, then helps by weaving greenery into the camouflage netting and doing what he can to disguise their camp. Before Gwaine is finished, Merlin comes winging back into the camp. He lands and waddles over to their tent, ducking under the flap, and Gwaine quickly picks up their clothing and bedrolls and follows him inside.

Merlin is back to human form, shaking his head and swaying a little on his feet.

"Everything all right?" Gwaine asks, handing him a pair of trousers.

"The change always leaves me a little lightheaded at first."

"I remember," says Gwaine, "but that's not what I meant. Are we in danger here?"

Merlin tilts his head and gets a faraway expression on his face. "Conor and Hyledd don't think so," he says. "We're a few miles from the node, and the village of Maidstone is beyond that another half mile or so. I told them how far it was to the nearest signs of smoke while I was still flying," he explains. "It's occupied by Saxons, but there shouldn't be any wandering bands; still, we may need to keep an eye out for people gathering herbs or firewood, that sort of thing."

Gwaine nods. "And Morgana? Any sign of her?"

"Not yet. She hasn't managed to tap into the node, in any case. I'd be able to tell if she had."

"Are you sure about that? Conor says you can mask your presence, magically speaking. What if she can do the same?"

"The person who showed me how to do it said that it's not something that's usually taught outside of druid clans," Merlin says. "Priestesses generally _want_ people to see how powerful they are, rather than hiding it. Plus the node's energy would… it's like when someone dips their hand into a little pool and stirs it all up. It takes a while for the sand and silt to settle back down, and the leaves to stop swirling in the water, and the, the fish to come back. If Morgana has touched the node, she hasn't done it recently."

"Any idea of where she is, then?"

At that, Merlin frowns, and reaches for his tunic. "No, but there's supposed to be a little shrine to the Old Religion just outside the village. Chances are good we'd find her there eventually."

"Sounds like an adventure," Gwaine says with an easy smile. "Want to go exploring?"

"Maybe in the morning," says Merlin. He runs his hands through his hair and glances away, biting his lip. "I… want to talk to Arthur first."

"You can't fly all the way back to Camelot from here," Gwaine warns him. "Can you?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I wouldn't want to risk it. But I want to see if I can communicate over the distance, see if there's anything more he needs me to do at that end, locating Odin's men." Merlin sighs, and continues, "And I really should help Conor and the others to hide the camp magically. Set up wards, that sort of thing."

Gwaine nods as if he has any idea what Merlin is talking about. "What's a ward?"

"It's like a boundary marker, only you can make them so that they push people away, or redirect their steps, or make them forget why they were headed that direction, that sort of thing. Useful, out here in enemy territory."

"All right, I see," says Gwaine. "Like that Silent Speech stuff you lot can all do."

Merlin winces. "They're leaving you out of conversation, aren't they?" At Gwaine's shrug, he shakes his head. "It's not polite. I know _why_ they're doing it, to keep quiet while we're here, but still. They should try to include you."

"I think they will where they can," offers Gwaine. "Conor used regular words with me earlier. And it doesn't really bother me too much. I've been treated worse, God knows." He stretches his arms over his head, feeling the joints pop satisfyingly. "As long as I can learn to keep my own trap shut and not give our position away, we should be fine."

"I'm glad you're being understanding about it," says Merlin quietly. "It's… you don't have magic, but you don't judge us for it either. It's nice."

"Merlin, I've told you before. You're my friend. If I couldn't see my way around respecting all of what you are, I would be a pretty piss-poor friend back, now, wouldn't I?"

"Still. I appreciate it." His stomach growls then, and they both grin.

"Let's get you fed, then, aye? You've been working your wonders for hours on end now. It's a miracle your stomach hasn't started gnawing on your own spine."

"There's an image," says Merlin, wrinkling his nose, and Gwaine just laughs softly and pushes him out of the tent.


	31. Chapter 31

"Since Morgana has allied with Odin, or at least bought him for her purposes, we have a better general idea of where that first strike will come from," Arthur is saying. He and several of his most senior knights, the troop commanders as well as his personal guard—Lancelot, Elyan, and Percival—are gathered in his chambers for a planning session, away from the council. He points to the map, tapping Cornwall with his finger. "Alined bears no love for us, and may allow Odin's men safe passage through to our land, or he may sail to the coast and attack from Gedref. As an outside option, he may come in through Nemeth, but I doubt it, since he'd have to contend with their armies first."

"Unless Gedref is occupied on their eastern border by the Saxons," says Leon.

"True." Arthur sighs. "At least we can bet that our northern borders are secure. We'll send scouts south and east, and hope that Morgana is too busy to conceal Odin's troop movements."

"And if he's not mobilizing an army?" asks Ector. Leon and the others frown at him, and he presses. "What if he's only sending assassins, small groups to infiltrate us?"

Arthur sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, it's an army. He's hired mercenaries to increase his numbers."

Now it's his turn to be frowned at. "Sire," Lucan tries, "our scouts have not yet returned. We cannot even be sure that Odin is moving against us."

"I can," he says. He thinks quickly, then decides that, despite the risk, this is something he can do to pave the way for Merlin's return. "You know that Merlin is a sorcerer," he says quietly. The knights shuffle nervously, trading glances or looking over their shoulders, or else boggling at him as if he's suddenly sprouted another head. "Don't pretend you and all the other knights _haven't_ been gossiping about it since the day we returned without him from patrol." _Despite my orders,_ goes unsaid but clearly heard by all present.

"What are you implying, sire?" asks one of the knights in the back. Arthur can't quite see who it is.

"I imply nothing. Merlin used his magic to look out over the kingdom, trying to see what Morgana was planning, and he identified men in Odin's livery, as well as mercenary companies. Enough to give us a hard fight, he said. He also used his magic to communicate what he found to me, so that we could act upon it and protect Camelot." Strictly speaking, he'd turned into a crow to come visit Arthur, but that still counted as using his magic to communicate with him, didn't it?

There is a long pause, and then Lucan says carefully, "Are you certain he can be trusted, sire?"

"I am as sure of Merlin as I am of any of you," Arthur says firmly. "He's saved our lives more than once on patrol, even if we never knew it. Even if he had to hide, because my father's laws would see him rewarded with a beheading, no matter how many of us he's protected over the years."

The knights are silent for another long moment; Arthur can feel the tension rising, and refuses to show that it's affecting him.

And then finally Ector, of all people, says, "We've all known Merlin for almost as long as you have, sire. He is… not truly capable of betraying you, I think."

There are whispers in the back, and more sidelong glances, but Arthur only says, "Thank you, Ector. Now. Odin has an army. We need to know where he will strike. Ideas?"

They turn back to the map, and a few knights offer comment, but there is little they can do other than speculate. They manage to narrow down Odin's most likely routes, "But this all presupposes that Odin isn't employing sorcerers himself to cover his movements," says Leon.

He's right. "And we must remember that this is all merely the _distraction_ gambit, so that Morgana can launch the real attack elsewhere," Arthur reminds them. "If I were her, and I wanted to make sure Odin would cooperate, I would almost certainly offer my own skills to make sure his movements were hidden from us until it was too late to do anything about them."

Bors steps forward then, studying the map thoughtfully. "Then he may be less interested in Deorham and more likely to take the sea approach for speed. But that would concentrate his forces in a small area, where he would be easy to defeat."

"Unless he takes advantage of the concealment to arrive early and find better ground," someone says. There are sounds of agreement all around.

"Forgive me, sire, but I still think the notion of small groups of infiltrators is not one to be discounted," puts in Lancelot.

"Supposing it's both?" offers Lucan. "A gambit within a gambit."

The room falls silent, and Arthur looks up, eyes narrowed. "Explain."

"According to what you've learned from… from Merlin," he says, "all this is meant to pull us away from whatever Morgana is planning. But suppose the armies are a further decoy from what _Odin_ is really planning. He's sent assassins after you before. If he is using sorcery to cover troop movements—whether Morgana's sorcery, or someone else's—would it not be easier to hide the movement of a small group rather than a large army?"

The room falls silent at first, then once again there are murmurs of assent. "What I know of sorcery could fill a thimble, sire," says Bors cautiously, "but it makes sense from a strategic viewpoint. If it _is_ easier to cover a small group than a large one, I think Morgana would conserve her strength, saving it for the main attack."

"Do we know where her main attack is going to come from?" asks someone.

"The ritual she's performing does not require her to be anywhere near us," says Arthur. "In fact, we've reason to believe she's hidden herself deep in Saxon territory, in Kent. We will not be able to reach her without leaving Camelot defenseless, and invading Nemeth or Escetir besides… but there is hope that Merlin can."

"You're relying on him to engage in a battle of magic?" asks Ector dubiously. "Is that—forgive me, sire, but—is that wise? It's one thing to expect him to protect you, but he is a servant, not a knight, even if he does have magic. Can we expect him to enter into battle, with none of us there to make certain he keeps his word?"

"Can we _trust_ him to fight for Camelot, and not go over to Morgana," mutters someone else.

"It's our only choice," replies Arthur simply. "It's not as if Camelot has any other magical allies. But to answer your other question, yes. I know—I have _absolute_ faith—that we can depend on Merlin to take our side."

There are more doubtful looks exchanged, but Elyan, Lancelot, and Percival are all nodding decisively. Even Leon looks supportive, if not adamant about it.

"You really believe that," says one knight.

"We all do," says Lancelot. "Merlin has always been loyal to Camelot. Loyal to Arthur especially, despite the risks."

The murmuring subsides, and Arthur thinks that Lancelot has managed to quell the worst of the other knights' misgivings. It may be only a small step forward, but it's miles ahead of a horde calling for Merlin's immediate execution. Arthur will take what he can get.

"Will he be strong enough to defeat her?" someone asks, and Arthur's heart swells in relief, and pride. If that is the sort of question they are asking about Merlin, then there is hope indeed that he may safely return someday.

"We'll have to hope so," he says. "Merlin will do his part, and either fail or succeed on his own," and Arthur _hates_ that he must leave his best friend unprotected except for Gwaine, "while we must do our part here, against Odin's men. We have no other choice," he repeats. "Morgana has planned this too well. Our hands are forced. The armies _must_ remain here; it is our hope, however, that she doesn't know we're aware of her gambit, and we may be able to take both her and Odin by surprise."

Bors has been studying the map the whole while, ignoring the point-and-counterpoint of their discussion. "They're already here," he says quietly, and the room falls silent. "If I were Odin, with Morgana to conceal an invasion force, I'd send infiltrators and spies as soon as I possibly could. His army will march, and his infiltrators will stop our scouts from reporting their movements. If they can breach the castle and kill you or His Majesty before the army even arrives, so much the better. If they can sabotage _our_ forces, attack outlying villages, sow chaos, then that would be better still. They think we don't know they're coming, so they will try to draw us away, possibly to the north, and while we are distracted, they will come in from the south. Which route they take is irrelevant if we don't know they're coming, so they will choose whatever gives them the best choice of ground, or the fastest route, or a combination of the two."

"And all the while, they think we are still incapable of facing Morgana, or even aware that she is acting against us," says Leon, nodding grimly.

Arthur rubs his chin, thinking quickly. "Then they will take the sea route, for speed," he says, "and set themselves up at Gedref with time to spare before the eclipse. But if Odin is really convinced that he'll take us unawares, he'll also come at us through Deorham, forcing us to divide our army to face his."

"That's what I'd do if it were me," agrees Bors.

"I think we are all glad that it is not you," says someone, and the men laugh a little, the tension eased just for a moment.

This, at least, Arthur knows how to counter. "We will keep our patrols the same size and frequency as usual," he says, "but replace some of the knights with footmen and mounted archers. That allows us to keep a heavier defensive force here while still sending the bulk of our army south. We can expect reports to come in from the north and east." _And hope that their predations do not destroy too many of our people_ , he thinks. "Since we know they are timing their attack to coincide with Morgana's ritual, we know exactly what day they will strike. We need only be in place before them. For that, we will double the number of scouts, and trust that at least some of them are able to make it back to report."

It's a grim plan, expecting a certain number of his people to die, but war is always grim. Every strategy must factor in the dead and wounded who will be taken from Camelot's armies as they go. Arthur can only pray that their civilian casualties remain small, as Odin's infiltrators plan their distraction from his troop movements.

"Does anyone disagree with this plan?" he asks, but the men shake their heads. It's as good a strategy as they'll be able to come up with until they have more information to go on. "Are there any other questions?"

"Sire," says one knight tentatively. The men around him step aside to that Arthur can see his face. "What will you do about the sorcerer after this battle is over?"

Everyone turns to Arthur to see what his answer will be. "I suppose that will depend on whether or not he survives," he tries, but he can see on the men's faces that that is not enough. "The law says we should have him burned for being what he is," he says next; he stands tall, his voice somber, knowing that every man here will take his words to heart and think on them later. "My father is still king, and I am no traitor. I have little choice but to uphold his policies, even if I disagree with them. But when I take the throne, whenever that day may be, Merlin will be welcomed back to Camelot as the hero he is."

"Hero, sire? A sorcerer?"

"Do you have any idea how many times he's saved my life alone?" he asks. "Never mind each of yours, if you've ever gone on a patrol with me?"

Arthur steps over to his desk, pulling out the crossbow bolt that had been aimed at his kidney a few short months ago. "The last time I saw him, his magic did this," he says, dropping it onto the map where they all can see it. "That bolt struck me in the back and should have gone right through me. Merlin prevented that. He saved my life the day after we first met, and was made my manservant as reward. He's been protecting me in secret ever since."

"But… didn't you try to kill him, sire?" asks another knight. "We heard… that is to say…"

Arthur takes a deep breath. "In the heat of battle, I saw the golden eyes of a sorcerer and reacted accordingly," he admits. "And I have regretted that every single day since. I allowed Merlin and Sir Gwaine to seek help for his injury, even though Merlin could not return with us to the capital. Merlin has every reason to despise me for what I did, and instead he chose to warn us of Morgana's plans as soon as he learned of them. Since he could not return to Camelot with that warning himself, he sent Sir Gwaine in his stead. Merlin is the one responsible for our intelligence on Odin's planned attack, and he's the one who is going to face Morgana, alone and unaided, while we take the field here. If any man here still questions his loyalty, to me or to Camelot, I would advise you to think on that, and then ask yourselves whether you would be generous enough to do the same."

There is silence after that, until Lancelot speaks up. "When is the eclipse, sire?"

Arthur nods at him in gratitude. "Geoffrey of Monmouth tells me we have twelve days. Each of you will do your part to prepare the men who serve under you, and spread the word throughout the army. The instant we hear back from the scouts, we will be on the move."

* * *

 

Two days later, the first reports begin to come in.


	32. Chapter 32

"Men on ships," Merlin is saying, pacing back and forth in their little tend. "It's men on ships, Odin's men are coming over the water, and I can't reach Arthur to tell him!"

He's been going on like this for a half hour, not listening to anything Gwaine has to say, so finally Gwaine gets up and plants himself in the other man's path. "Merlin. You need to settle down," he says. "Princess has scouts and spies, and patrols, and reports that come in from the outlying villages. He has ways of finding things out other than just your magic, hm? You need to remember that, and trust him."

"I do," says Merlin. "I do trust him."

"Then stop being such a mother hen about it, all right? Arthur knows war, and he knows strategy. Thanks to you, he also already knows that Odin is moving against him. He'll be able to figure out their most likely approach and plan accordingly." Gwaine rubs his chin and goes on. "If I remember my boundaries right, water sounds like Odin's going to try to make a landing at Gedref. That won't be easy for him, if Arthur has anyone there at all keeping watch. Camelot's armies can surround the beach and easily defeat them before they even reach land."

"If he knows that's where they're coming," Merlin frets again, but Gwaine has had enough.

"The eclipse is in three days, Merlin, and you're spending more time worrying about Arthur's battle than you are about yours. Have you found Morgana yet? Does she know we're here? Do you have any sort of plan for how to take her on? You need to worry about those things a bit more than a battle taking place on the other side of Albion."

Merlin closes his eyes and lets out a sharp gust of air before opening them again. "I am thinking about her too, I promise," he says. "It's just… I can see Arthur, but I haven't been able to speak to him, and I don't know if it's just the distance or if there's a problem, or what."

"Have you asked Conor?"

Now Merlin chews on his lip, and ends up chuckling ruefully. "No. I've been too worked up about it. You're right."

Gwaine acknowledges that as gracefully as he can, which is to say he mostly ignores it rather than lord it over Merlin, and crosses his arms, leaning against the tent pole. "If you can see Arthur, what is he doing when you look in on him?"

"He's in armor," Merlin replies. "Lately I've seen him on his horse or in a tent, bent over a table covered in maps and such. It could just be that I can't talk to him because he doesn't have any mirrors around, or that he's blocking me himself by concentrating on other things."

"So he's armed and on the move," Gwaine reiterates. "He probably already knows where Odin is going to be, and is moving to meet him."

"I hope so," says Merlin. Then he perks up, and Gwaine resists the urge to frown. "Gaius. I could try to talk to Gaius!"

Nope, Gwaine is frowning after all. " _Or_ you could _focus on Morgana_ instead. You know, the entire reason we've come into Saxon territory? Mind you, I'll travel anywhere and not fret about the company I end up keeping, but the druids are risking their necks with every day they stay here. And they're staying for you."

Merlin has the grace to at least look a little sheepish. "I never asked them to come."

"Maybe not," allows Gwaine, "but they're here and they're not leaving until you either defeat Morgana or are defeated yourself. I doubt they're just going to stand back and watch if it looks like you're going to die, and I'm not, either."

Merlin sighs, dragging his hands through his hair. "All right," he says quietly, as if to himself rather than to Gwaine. "All right. You're right. Arthur can take care of himself." Although as he says it, he grimaces as if he can't quite believe the words coming out of his own mouth. "I'll try to talk to him again later tonight. For now I need to focus on Morgana, and this ritual."

"Last I heard, you hadn't learned anything more about it," says Gwaine. "Have the druids managed to find anything else?"

"A little… not much. She has to purify herself and come before the Triple Goddess, the most powerful, chief goddess of the Old Religion. Ordinarily it'd be either nine or twelve priests, sacred numbers, all in trance and working as one mind to… well, it's simultaneously begging and demanding, almost. You're asking the Goddess to do what you want, but you have to be absolutely fixated on what you're asking for and not allow your concentration to waver for even a second. If you do, the ritual might fail, and if you offend the Goddess, you might even be punished for your presumption."

"Morgana's presuming quite a lot, trying to do this ritual herself," Gwaine points out.

"Yeah. Conor thinks maybe she doesn't know all the details, or she would know better than to try."

"So you think you'll be able to disrupt the ritual yourself?"

"That'll be the easy part," says Merlin. "Disrupting her concentration for even a second is all it'll take. The hard part will be dealing with her afterward, when she's angry. There's also the risk that the _Goddess_ might be angry, and I'm really not sure I'm strong enough to fight a deity and survive, much less win."

Gwaine blinks, feeling his eyebrows climb his forehead a little at the notion of the old gods getting involved in this fight. "But no pressure or anything, right?"

Merlin laughs. If he sounds a little tense, a little forced, well, Gwaine isn't going to say anything.

* * *

 

The camp, small as it is, doesn't need Gwaine underfoot. It's not that he's in the way, or even trying to be, so much as the druids have everything handled. They take it in shifts to prepare meals, using magic to conceal the smoke from their cook fire. They have plenty of water; the horses are tended to; and they aren't going to be here long enough to settle in and craft any supplies. They spend most of their time performing magic and using the Silent Speech to communicate.

If Gwaine had felt useless before, in the main druid camp, he feels especially so now. There aren't even any children for him to play with.

"You are doing your part," says Hyledd to him one evening. "You are looking after Emrys. Keeping him focused on the task at hand, as a friend rather than as a teacher. You do not burden him with the weight of our beliefs in his destiny. You distract him when he needs it. These are all things that we, as relative strangers, cannot really do for him."

And that's a relief to hear, but it doesn't do anything to ease Gwaine's nerves. The eclipse is coming, and by every god, Gwaine could really use a drink.

* * *

 

The night before the eclipse, neither of them really sleeps.

"At least I was able to reach Gaius," says Merlin into the darkness. "You were right; Arthur and his men are already preparing defenses at Gedref. Gaius is with them, since he's in charge of setting up and running the medical tent during the battle. He says the same thing you do."

"That you should focus more on Morgana?"

"That I don't have to worry so much about Arthur. He's got Lancelot and Elyan and Percival, and all the rest of the knights, to keep him safe. He's got a whole army between him and Odin's men… even if I know he'll take the field anyway."

"What of Uther?" Gwaine asks. He hears Merlin sigh and roll over on his pallet.

"Still at Camelot. He's not well enough to lead the armies, but he's still the king; Arthur had Leon put together a force to defend the citadel and keep his father safe." He's quiet for a moment, then he says, "I just hope it will be enough. With the army away, and all."

"Right," says Gwaine. He takes a deep breath. "Any sign of Morgana?"

"I've seen her," says Merlin. "That shrine outside Maidstone, and at the standing stone once or twice. I don't think she knows we're here, or else she's relying on her dreams to tell her what might happen. It's strange, though; she hasn't done anything with the node. I'm beginning to think she doesn't know how to sense them, or use them."

"That'll be an advantage, then, yeah?"

"I hope so."

There is quiet in their tent for a few minutes, and Gwaine listens to Merlin tossing and turning. "Get some rest," he says finally. "You're going to be busy tomorrow."

Merlin chuckles, just a little huff of laughter. "A bit, yeah."

"You'll do fine. Better if we're both rested, though."

"Yeah. Thanks, Gwaine."

"No trouble."

Again, he hears Merlin shift. "I'm serious, though. Thank you. For everything. You saved my life, bringing me to the druids. You saved me again, getting Arthur to come visit. The knife fighting… well, I hope I won't have to use it tomorrow, but even if I don't, it'll still probably keep me safe someday. You've been…"

"I've been a friend, Merlin. No more than you deserve." He waits, but the other man doesn't respond, so after a pause he adds, "Now go to sleep."

Merlin does, his breath evening out until he starts to snore softly, but Gwaine stays awake long into the night.

* * *

 

It's the night before the eclipse, and Arthur cannot sleep. He knows he needs the rest, knows he'll need to be at his sharpest tomorrow, but instead he is out under the stars, walking the boundaries of the camp, nodding to the inner sentries, checking their defensive positions and siege weaponry. He's commanded troops before, but never the entire army, and he wishes—not for the first time—that his father were here with him and capable of taking over.

But he isn't; the conversation Arthur had tried to have with Uther had been a disaster, the man either completely vacant or else rambling about things Arthur had no knowledge of. When Arthur had tried to push, tried to get the king to see that Camelot still _needed_ him, desperately, he had cursed at Arthur and ordered him out of his sight.

Arthur knows, now, that if he comes back from this battle at all, he'll come back a king. The council is ready to force Uther's abdication, and Arthur will have proven that he's ready to take over. It's not what he wants, but it is what will almost certainly happen.

He just wonders how the council will take the repeal of the laws banning magic. Arthur may be able to rule without his father watching over him, but he'll be damned if he does it without Merlin.

He's stopped on the cliff overlooking the beaches of Gedref, his hands clasped behind his back, worrying and wishing with all his heart that Merlin were here to distract him. Merlin always knows what to say to bring Arthur back out of his head and into the moment, where he needs to be. He's not here, because Arthur stabbed him; yet, only his being gone has allowed Camelot the advance warning they needed to prevent Odin's invasion, and Morgana's sorcery, from bringing the kingdom to ruin.

Does that mean it's a _good_ thing that he nearly killed his best friend?

Arthur hears the crunch of footsteps moments before Gaius speaks. "Is everything all right, sire?"

"I'm fine," he replies, wondering whether that's a lie. "Shouldn't you be in bed by now?"

"I am an old man, sire, and do not require as much sleep as I used to. With all respect, however, I could say the same to you."

Arthur shakes his head. "The men are wondering whether I'm mad, setting up defenses here when there's been no sign of an invasion."

"Merlin saw Odin's forces at sea, sire. They'll be here. And you will be ready for them."

"I hope so."

"I know so, sire," says Gaius. "Have faith. Merlin's power is unmatched anywhere in the world."

"I believe that," Arthur replies, "but the men still don't trust him as I do. And even if Merlin's right, and Odin tries to land here tomorrow, we've still left Camelot open to attack from Odin's infiltrators."

"You've done no such thing, sire. In addition to trusting Merlin, you must have faith in Sir Leon's abilities as your first knight to defend the city from invasion."

Arthur takes a deep breath, smelling the salt in the air before letting it out slowly. "I know. I just wish I could be in both places at once." It's three places, really; here, the citadel, and in Kent, protecting Merlin.

"Now that, I do understand," Gaius says with a chuckle. "But if you are committed to the defense here, then you must be willing to put the citadel out of your mind, and focus on Gedref while you are here."

"You're right, of course," says Arthur. And he knows that Gaius is speaking sense, he does; it's just difficult to actually follow the older man's advice when his thoughts are with Merlin instead. "I just wish…" He bites his lip, then comes out and says it. "I just wish I could protect them all."

"And that, sire, is why you will be a great king, when the time comes." He pats Arthur on the arm before taking a step back. "For now, however, I would recommend that you sleep. I could provide you with a draught if you require one."

"No, that won't be necessary. Thank you, Gaius."

"Of course, sire."

He watches the physician return to his tent, shuffling past the sentries on duty, until he disappears from view, and hopes that everything will be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's only been a couple of days since the last chapter, and that some of you might not even be caught up yet, but I got inspired while trying to figure out why the battle scenes weren't coming together. It looks like I still had this little bit left to write.
> 
> My comment count has taken a real plunge lately, and I know a couple of you have mentioned starting college and other real-life commitments that are keeping you from reading as much as you used to. I hope you are all well and that you're able to adapt to your changes easily!


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I only posted a chapter yesterday, but I didn't want to leave you all in suspense. So here is the beginning of the fight! (I'm just sorry it didn't go faster.)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left comments yesterday or this morning! Your encouragement is part of what motivated me to write this so quickly. Well, that and avoiding doing other things around the house. :)

The next morning, the druids set up an altar of their own, near the well, and begin to pray. Gwaine sees smoldering herbs and feathered charms, bowls of red clay that the druids begin painting themselves with, and bowls of clear water from the well. As he and Merlin watch, half the druids take their clothes off and fold them in a neat pile in front of the altar, while others begin to drum or sing or sit rocking back and forth, their eyes rolled up into their heads. They're mixing magic into the prayer as well, Gwaine knows, from the way the hair on his arms and neck is standing up, prickling and unnerving.

Hyledd, one of the naked ones, steps up to Merlin and kisses him; no innocent peck, this, but a full-on _kiss_ , long and languorous and deep, making both him and Gwaine raise their eyebrows in surprise. When she lets Merlin come up for air, Hyledd strokes his cheeks and gazes deep into his eyes, saying something in the Silent Speech that makes Merlin blush. He takes a deep breath, though, and seems to brace himself, nodding, and several other druids, women and men alike, line up to take their turn. Nearly all of them are naked, and several of them leave Merlin with lingering touches and wistful smiles, their eyes flickering gold as they stroke his hair or touch his shoulder.

Druids. Gwaine has lived with them for months now, and he's still pretty sure he'll never be able to fathom all their ways.

After his kiss, Conor steps over to Gwaine as well. "No offense," Gwaine says quickly, "but I don't normally go for men. The exceptions are pretty rare, and I hate to say it, but you're just not pretty enough for me."

Conor only grins and holds up his flask of Water of Life. "Go with our blessings, and return safely," he says, taking a deep swallow and grimacing after. He passes the flask to Gwaine, and Gwaine, bemused, finishes it off. He can't be blamed, really: he's about to head into battle, and this might be the last drink he ever gets. May as well make it a good one.

"My thanks," he says.

"Bring him back to us," replies Conor. "And don't get yourself killed, neither."

"I'll do my best."

* * *

 

It's midmorning by the time they head out, Merlin looking thoroughly rumpled and more than a little dazed.

"You all right, there?" Gwaine asks, amused.

Merlin blushes again and nods. "They were giving me their blessings and protection spells," he says. "Just… a different way of going about it."

"Protection," teases Gwaine. "So that's what they're calling it these days."

Merlin startles a little, a look of outrage on his face, before he subsides with a chuckle. "And distraction. I can feel the eclipse coming, and it's setting me on edge."

"That soon, is it?" Gwaine squints up through the trees, but doesn't see anything unusual.

"Not for a few more hours," replies Merlin, stepping over a tree root. He's forgone the druid robes today in favor of clothing he can move and fight in, a pair of Gwaine's best knives strapped to his belt.

"What's it feel like?"

Merlin rubs at his chin where the beard has grown in. "It's like… like walking up to the edge of a high, high cliff and peering over; that sense of being right on the edge of something huge, and a little part of you wanting to step off into the empty air and see what happens. As we get closer to the eclipse, it feels like we're getting closer to that edge."

They walk in silence for a little, while Gwaine takes that in. He's been on that precipice before, he thinks, getting into fights where the odds are stacked against him. He may not have the magic to feel the eclipse coming, but this battle they're expecting—him the only one without magic and squaring off between two powerful sorcerers, hoping he doesn't get struck by lightning or turned into a toad, or something even weirder—well, that's a cliff face he's stared down before, in a way, and like Merlin says, there's a part of him that likes the sensation.

"It's good that the shrine is so close to the standing stone, yeah?" he asks, checking that his own blades are hung just so, on his belt, up his arm sheaths, behind his back. "She could be either place, but we'll be able to find her." _We won't be too late_ , is what he really means, but he doesn't say it because he doesn't want to make Merlin even more nervous than he already is.

"We'll find her," says Merlin, eyes distant. "She hasn't started yet, but we're close enough that I can feel her presence. I wonder if she can feel mine."

"The druids taught you well," Gwaine says, and Merlin gives him half a smile. "You'll be fine. You're stronger than she is, right?"

"Supposedly, yeah. But she might have a goddess on her side."

"I think the druids are seeing to it that she won't," says Gwaine.

They clear the trees, and only then does the prickling of the hair on Gwaine's arms settle down. Whatever the druids are up to, it's pretty strong stuff, much like their liquor. Gwaine can only hope that it helps Merlin's cause today.

They walk the rest of the way in silence; Gwaine glances over every now and again, but Merlin seems to have put his nerves to bed. The only expression on his face is one of grim resolve. _He may not be built like a knight_ , Gwaine thinks to himself, _but damn if he doesn't have the heart of one._

* * *

 

Gwaine's had some time to do a little scouting, these past several days, so he knows the lay of the land between here and their destination. When they get close enough, he pulls Merlin down to his knees, and they crawl up a gentle rise, the final one before the standing stone comes into view.

It's surrounded by Saxons.

"Damn," says Gwaine quietly. "Well, we always knew it was too much to hope she'd be alone."

"I see archers," says Merlin. "And there are sorcerers in the mix, too."

"Strong?"

"Not really," comes the reply. "And only about a half dozen of them."

 _Only_ is not a word Gwaine would ordinarily use to describe a half-dozen enemy sorcerers waiting for him to arrive, especially backed by about a dozen archers and another dozen or so men and women with blades. "Those odds look pretty steep," he says lightly. "I think I like them."

"I think I can do something about those odds," says Merlin. "Come on."

Gwaine grabs Merlin's elbow and pulls him back down, ignoring his friend's glare. "If we stand up they'll start shooting. Can you do anything about their arrows?"

"Yes, but they'll only start shooting if they see us," says Merlin with a little smirk. He says something in the language of magic, his eyes flash gold, and then he turns as hazy as smoke before Gwaine's eyes. He can see _through_ Merlin and his edges have gone soft and blurry. "You can only see me because I want you to," he says. "They can't. And they can't see you, either. Come on."

"Are we going to just walk up and start killing them?" Gwaine may not be as fussed about honor and the knight's code as Arthur is, but this still seems hardly sporting, even if those Saxons are waiting to kill him.

"No. This type of spell will only last until we touch them, and anyway, they're the distraction from Morgana's ritual," says Merlin. "Now either come with me or wait here, but I'm going." The haze of smoke speaking with Merlin's voice lifts itself out of the grass, and with a muttered curse, Gwaine follows.

They make it down the hill without being shot at, which is always nice in Gwaine's opinion. They get about twenty paces away, and he can pick out the sorcerers now in their gaudy robes and lack of armor. Morgana is not among them.

The fighters are muttering back and forth, standing in a decent formation in front of the archers, and keeping a lookout in a sort of halfhearted way. Gwaine really isn't sure what Merlin's plan is, but he's about ready to just draw blade and go wading in there, and see how long he lasts before they get him. Merlin, however, takes him by the elbow and whispers, "Later, if we have to," and they simply walk past the standing stone and up the road toward the shrine.

They almost make it before one of the Saxons shouts something, and in a blink he and Merlin no longer look like smoke.

"I was afraid of that," says Merlin. "Run!"

"You get to the shrine," Gwaine says, "and I'll hold them off."

"Don't be an idiot," Merlin snaps. He says something in the language of magic, and suddenly there are shouts and cries of panic behind them. Gwaine risks a look over his shoulder, and sees that all the archers' bows have caught fire, and they are throwing them down and stripping their quivers off their belts as fast as they can, smoke rising from the arrows inside.

"Solves that problem," he laughs, but the fighters are still coming, swords drawn, and all six sorcerers have their arms raised or long wooden staffs pointed their direction, and are shouting various things at them that probably won't involve puppies and kittens and large-bosomed women coming to say hello.

"Scealdan!" yells Merlin, skidding to a stop, and a shimmering golden barrier pops up between the pair of them and the oncoming Saxons. It flickers in bright splashes of color as the other sorcerers' spells strike it, and the ground on the other side of it churns up in places, or catches fire, or starts crawling with thick vines. With a grunt, Merlin shoves his hands forward, and the barrier surges, plowing into the enemy and knocking them off their feet. The spells on the other side all die out like candle flames, there and gone between one breath and the next. "Swefe nu," Merlin growls, and the Saxons all go limp at once, the sorcerers the last to fall but still succumbing to… whatever it was Merlin just did.

"Are they dead?" It doesn't seem like Merlin to kill so readily. Or at all, really.

"Asleep," says Merlin, catching his breath, and Gwaine feels something uncurl in his chest in affection and relief. "They'll stay that way till sunset. Or maybe till the eclipse, I'm not sure."

"You're not sure?" He can just hear the Princess yelling at Merlin for not knowing, but Gwaine is only curious. Well, and possibly a little concerned.

"Eclipse is going to wreak merry hell on magic all over the place, for about ten minutes," says Merlin. "And it'll be dark here, which might be close enough to 'sundown' in magic terms for the spell to break on its own."

"Then let's get to the shrine and get this over with before they wake up," suggests Gwaine, and Merlin nods grimly, turning his back on the unconscious fighters.

They make it about a furlong before Merlin stops, and puts a hand on Gwaine's chest. "Don't go any farther," he says.

"Why not?"

In answer, Merlin bends down and plucks some of the grass growing by the side of the road, and tosses it lightly forward. The breeze carries it only a couple of feet before another barrier flickers in front of them, a sullen red this time. Only instead of stopping the grass like Merlin's shield did, this one causes the grass to shrivel, turn black, and then crumble like ash as it touches the ground.

"Well, that's not good," says Gwaine.

"I just have to figure out a way around it," says Merlin.

"Won't the eclipse 'play merry hell' with this, too?"

"Maybe, but by then it'll be too late. We need to get in there before the ritual starts, if we can. Morgana isn't going to wait on us to show up and stop her."

Merlin paces around the barrier, about ten steps to one side, and then comes back and goes ten steps to the other. He doesn't touch it at all, but he lifts his hand to it once or twice and mutters under his breath. Gwaine's not quite sure what to do with himself, but he doesn't want to disturb Merlin's concentration, so he just steps back and keeps an eye out for any wandering Saxons that might decide to leave the village, or wake up from their pile on the ground.

Overhead, the sky begins to dim. Gwaine presses his lips together and looks back over his shoulder at Merlin, who is clearly growing agitated. They're within fifty paces of the shrine, and Morgana is almost certainly inside, but they can't get to her.

Minutes pass, Merlin beginning to speak spells at Morgana's barrier, his voice growing louder, but nothing seems to happen. Meanwhile, Gwaine watches as their shadows fade from the ground, and the dappling of light under a nearby tree goes from round dots of sunlight to strange crescents. The breeze dies, and even the birds begin to grow silent. After another minute, crickets and other night insects begin to chirp and sing.

"She's started," says Merlin, with his teeth clenched tightly together. "I can feel it. She's started, and we're _stuck_ out here, and I will be _damned_ if I let her finish this ritual on her own!"

Gwaine jogs over and rests his hands on his friend's shoulders, feeling the tension there. "You can do this, Merlin. I know you can. Now, me, I'm just an idiot with a sword. I'd try to hack at the thing and probably just lose my weapon, but you… well, my friend, I think you'll be able to figure out a better option."

"An idiot with a sword," says Merlin. Then he blinks, and smiles. "Gwaine, that's it. Here, lend me your sword."

"Sure you don't want me to wield it?"

"If I'm wrong, I don't want you getting hurt."

Gwaine chews on that, but only for a second, because it's getting darker all around them. They'll have only minutes before Morgana's ritual is complete. "All right, then," he says, and draws his blade. He passes it over to Merlin hilt first.

Merlin says something that makes the sword glow with eerie blue fire, then he steps back away from Gwaine, grips the hilt in both hands, and slashes at the barrier with a cry.

There is a tearing sound, and Gwaine sees a circle in the grass, large enough to encompass the entire shrine, suddenly flash red, then blue, before disappearing entirely. He feels the shiver of magic along his arms for just an instant as the barrier dissipates, and turns to see Merlin grinning fiercely.

"Well done," he says, and means it. "Now, let's go stop that witch from getting her way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm undecided: should I leave you hangin' for a bit and switch to Arthur's battle next, just to drag out the suspense of Merlin and Morgana's confrontation, or do you want me to finish this and then switch to Arthur's side? I'm still thinking about which would be the better option, myself. Feel free to try and sway me in the comments!


	34. Chapter 34

The army is waiting, tense and silent, as the sun rises on the day of the eclipse. Arthur has stood on the cliffs watching for ships for as long as he can, before his officers and Uther's council pull him into the command tent to harangue him—carefully and politely, but still expressing their doubt and fears that he's wasted all their time, bringing them here.

"Merlin saw Odin's men in ships," Arthur says. "It's only a matter of time before they arrive."

" _Merlin._ You're trusting a _sorcerer_ , sire!" Lord Vortigern's face is red and his jowls shake as he speaks. "If your father only knew—"

"My father is not here, Vortigern, and you would do well to remember that."

The other councilors grow quiet at the warning in Arthur's tone, but Vortigern seems not to hear it. "And why isn't he here, hm? Because of Morgana's _magic_ , weakening his mind!" The older lord slaps the table, making at least one man jump and all of them glare at him.

"No," says Arthur firmly. "It was not Morgana's magic that felled him, but her betrayal." Because Uther loved her, Arthur knows, and could not fathom why she would not love him in return.

"And how do you know this servant of yours will not betray _you?_ "

Arthur, angry as he is at Vortigern, still throws his head back and laughs, the scorn cutting through and making the older lord shut his mouth with a snap. "Merlin doesn't have it _in_ him to betray me," he says, "and only a fool would think that he does." Around him, several of his knights nod decisively, some folding their arms and watching Vortigern with annoyance writ plain on their faces.

"He could have bewitched you into saying that—"

"Oh, yes, bewitched me so thoroughly that he has not been seen in Camelot in three months now. So thoroughly that he has made a point of warning us about Odin's _and_ Morgana's plans to attack us today."

"An attack we have seen no sign of—"

"Sire!" The call comes from outside the tent, and a squire bursts in, one of the runners Arthur recognizes as coming from the cliffs where the siege engines are stationed. "Ships, sire," the boy pants, resting his hands on his knees. "Sir Lucan says there are dozens, coming up the channel now."

"Right," nods Arthur. "Take yourself to the medical tent and rest before you return to your post. Gentlemen, the strategy on the map is the one we will follow, unless there are any further objections." All around the table, there are nods and murmurs of _Yes, sire_ and _Aye_. "Vortigern, either remain here and coordinate the messengers, or else go back to the supply wagons with the rest of the councilors and keep yourself safe. You're of no use to me here."

Vortigern draws himself up. "Your Highness, I command thirty knights—"

"Your levy may have provided them, Vortigern, but _I_ command them, and you and your constant harping are, as I said, of no use to me. Your insistence on questioning every order I issue is going to get good men killed. Bors, _you_ can find one of your men to coordinate the messengers. Vortigern, take yourself out from underfoot."

He leaves the man sputtering in the command tent as he whirls and strides out, red cape billowing behind him.

* * *

 

The beach at Gedref is a long tongue of pebbled sand about a half-mile wide, resting between two cliffs and gently sloping up until woodland takes over, not far from Gedref's famous labyrinth. All the rest of the coast, for a dozen miles in either direction, consists of either shoreline too shallow to hold more than a handful of fishing boats at a time, or else sheer cliffs or boulders that make landing impossible. If Odin wants to attack Camelot by sea, Arthur knows he will have little choice but to land here; however, that does not mean it's an ideal approach. The shores of Gedref are too easily defended, if one is prepared for attack. If Odin had suspected that his plans were known, he would never have come this way.

Up on the eastern cliff, Arthur sits his horse and waits as the enemy's ships come into view. He's surrounded by two dozen trebuchets and another dozen onagers, and an equal number of engines face him on the opposite cliff. They've had plenty of time to position themselves and calibrate their machines, so that their missiles will land in the water rather than overshooting and smashing into their own forces. All they have to do now is wait for Odin's fleet to commit to the attack.

"First volley, stones only," Arthur orders, and his officers rush to call the command up and down the line. "Second volley, fire pots. On my mark. Do _not_ fire before my signal."

The breeze blows his hair back from his forehead, and all falls silent as the ships row closer. It's quiet enough that Arthur can hear the shouts from the men on the water, making ready to land. Soon the channel is filled with ships, and more keep coming, but Arthur has commanded that his ground forces do nothing until the siege engines fire. Even as the very first men disembark and start leisurely pulling horses and armor off the ships, still Arthur waits. It's clear that they don't know they're being watched, by the unhurried manner in which they move. Judging from the horses, Odin has brought scouts and light cavalry for his march. Something about that niggles at Arthur's mind, but he has no time to dwell on it, as he watches the fleet like a hawk.

Finally the last of the ships heaves into view on the waves; there are roughly a hundred by Arthur's count. Ten thousand men, at a guess. A respectable force… but only if they all land. Arthur's about to cut those numbers by half.

He raises one arm high, waiting until he sees Lucan do the same on the opposite cliff. All up and down the line, the siege engines make ready, and when the crews look up, waiting for his signal, he drops his arm.

Several tons of rock are launched into the air, arcing high over the water before plunging down.

A few stones miss, but the fleet is packed into the channel so tightly that most strike home, crashing into the ships with a deafening crack like thunder, followed by the screams of the men aboard. The ships, with gaping holes in their hulls, plummet to the bottom of the harbor, with men jumping overboard and swimming frantically. Some manage to crawl to safety aboard a nearby ship, but even for them, it's too late. The second volley is coming, and now the sky is full of fire.

Those few soldiers who've made it to shore are shouting orders and climbing into the saddle as fast as they can, but Arthur's orders were clear. As the fire pots from the catapults begin burning ships and men alike, his archers step to the edge of the forest and begin laying down a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts. On the beach, men and horses scream and fall under the assault.

This was supposed to be a hard-fought battle, and instead the harbor has turned into a kill pocket where Arthur's men can pick off the enemy at will. It's not a battle, it's a slaughter.

"Something isn't right," he says to himself. Among the forces that have made it to shore, Arthur can see light cavalry. Scouts. Infantry. Where are their knights? To lay siege to Camelot, Odin would need engines as well, and these ships show no sign of them. Arthur's men are cheering, but he can't share their enthusiasm. "Something isn't _right._ "

"Sire?" He's surrounded by messengers, waiting on his orders. A few of them are looking at him in confusion.

"This is too easy," Arthur explains. Shouldn't Odin have brought knights, to lay siege to the citadel later? Arthur doesn't see any on the ships that have reached shore, nor does he spot horses in the ships farther back. He frowns, then turns to the nearest messenger. "Send outriders in all directions, looking for a secondary land approach from Odin's knights. Report whatever you find to Lancelot's position." The messengers' eyes grow wide for a moment, then they all turn and dash off, scattering toward the forest and the opposite cliff.

Arthur nods to Ector, leaving him in command of the siege weapons on this side of the harbor, and gallops past his messenger, heading toward Lancelot and the rest of the knights. He's thinking quickly now, trying to outguess Odin, hoping he can figure out what the enemy might be planning before it's too late.

* * *

 

"Sire," Lancelot greets him. The knights, as Arthur's reserve force, have been milling around, keeping their horses calm, waiting for word to come in and mop up on the beach if it becomes necessary. So far, all has gone according to plan and they know it; they're not expecting to see much action today, so tension ripples through the ranks as Arthur approaches.

"Fall back," he calls as he approaches. "Everybody, fall back!"

The knights in the front ranks look worried, but they are disciplined and well-trained. They turn and spread the word, and the entire force begins to move back out of sight of the battle as Lancelot breaks from them and comes to Arthur's side.

"I sent out scouts, to report to you here. Have you gotten any word from them?" asks Arthur.

"Not yet," says Lancelot, quickly picking up on Arthur's mood. "What's wrong?"

"It's too easy," says Arthur, smacking a fist into his palm in frustration. "Odin should have brought knights to lay siege to Camelot. They're not on those ships. So where are they?"

Lancelot's eyebrows go up. "You think he took the land approach with part of his army."

"It would make sense. He's got about ten thousand men on those ships; he'd need at least twenty to lay siege to Camelot. I'd thought at first that he was planning to conscript the peasants, but there are no knights, no engines, nothing. It's all infantry and light cavalry coming in right now."

"What are your orders?"

Arthur shakes his head. "Odin must have been planning a rendezvous, if not here then further inland. Once I know where the rest of his army is, I can plan. For now, we fall back into the trees, out of sight. If they do come at us from the flank, we'll be ready for them."

"If he can't see us…"

Arthur shuts his eyes for a moment, hating himself for what he's about to say. "He'll go for the engines and the archers. Mainly the archers. They're what he can see, and he'll want to clear the way for the rest of his ships to land."

Lancelot's face falls in realization. "You're going to sacrifice the archers."

"I'll have no choice. We don't have the numbers to clash head-to-head. If his knights come at us in formation, we'll wipe each other out. If they're spread out, in a charge or a skirmish, we can come in behind and roll right over them. We _have_ to wait until they've committed to the attack."

Lancelot nods, though it's clear from his expression that he doesn't like the decision any more than Arthur does. "I'm sorry, sire," he says. "Your Highness." He bows his head respectfully, and backs his horse away, returning to the ranks and coordinating the knights' movement.

Arthur takes a deep breath, and wishes with everything that is in him that this decision did not fall to him. That he didn't have to be responsible for the deaths of his own men.

At that moment, there is a roar from their left flank, and the artillery fire that has been filling the sky from both directions suddenly only comes from the northern cliff.

A rider in Camelot red comes tearing over the hill, racing toward Arthur's position.

"Sire! Sir Lancelot! Your Highness!" he's screaming, but it's easy to guess what the trouble is. The artillery fire from the siege engines on the southern cliff has stopped, and from the beach, Arthur can hear the screams of his own archers—his own men—dying, as Odin's knights sweep in and begin a slaughter of their own.

"How many?" he demands, as the messenger's horse skids to a halt next to him.

"About five thousand, sire," the messenger gasps out. "Knights, mainly. They've headed for the beach! I'm so sorry, sire, I came too late. I rode as fast as I could, but—"

"This is not your fault," Arthur says, a mantle of calm falling over him that he had not expected. But this man, all his men, need him now. He can fall apart in regret and shame later. "You gave me what I needed to know. Well done."

The messenger draws himself up, still heaving for breath but with a look of pure admiration in his eyes. "Thank you, sire," he says. "I didn't see any archers or light infantry. I'd guess those are all on the ships. He has siege engines, but they're still too far back to be of any use to him. I could barely see them myself."

"You've done your part," says Arthur. "Get back behind the lines and let your horse recover. Well done," he repeats, and the messenger nods and moves away.

Arthur turns and faces the knights. Percival, Elyan, and Lancelot form up around him, his own personal guard. Arthur stands in his stirrups and raises his voice, so that everyone in the first fifteen rows can hear him.

"Odin's men have come by land _and_ sea," he shouts, "and his knights are chewing through our left flank even now. I say we give them something better to chew on. Something they'll _choke_ on!"

The men cheer, unsheathing their swords and raising them high.

 _"For the love of Camelot!"_ he screams, and the cheer becomes a roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my husband for chatting with me at length about military tactics and strategy, and reminding me that this should not be a cake walk for Arthur to command or to deal with.


	35. Chapter 35

The knights move out in formation, relatively quietly at first, circling around in a wide arc to get behind Odin's men without being spotted. Arthur leads from the front, surrounded by Percival, Elyan, and Lancelot, as well as a standard bearer who looks entirely too young to be in this battle. He can only pray that the boy will survive and not be another innocent death on his hands.

Finally they crest a rise between the cliffs and the forest, and see Odin's forces tearing through the archers. They are all spread out, skirmishing up and down the beach, staying out of the forest for maneuverability's sake, which is all Arthur needs to know. If his archers can make it to the trees, they'll be safe.

The boy raises Arthur's standard high as Arthur himself stands in his stirrups and screams, _"Charge!"_

His men roar. His horse leaps forward. Not long after that, the world descends into chaos.

Arthur's men crash into the rear of Odin's line with a force like a battering ram, and in the space of a breath, Arthur's world narrows to the flash of steel, the bone-shaking impact of sword against sword, and the screams of men and horses, reacting in rage or pain or mortal terror as his knights crash into Odin's. Arthur and his guard plow forward, breaking free from the rest of the knights and laying into foes on all sides; his destrier, well-trained, rears and bashes in the heads of other horses and men alike. The stench of blood and bowel is thick on the air, mingling with the acrid odor of burning pitch and woodsmoke from the ships. The boy keeps Arthur's standard high, and the sight of it draws the enemy to them, one after another, pulling them back and off of the fleeing archers.

Arthur shoves his sword into an eye slit on a man's helm and pulls it free as he falls, grips tight with his legs and holds on as his horse lashes out with hooves and teeth, and blocks another blow coming in at him from an awkward angle. He's panting, gasping for breath, yet he doesn't feel winded in the slightest, the high of battle-rage coming upon him.

Foot by bloody foot, surrounded by death on all sides, Arthur and his guard move forward until they've made it clear across the beach, from one end to the other. He turns, the sight sickening and yet making his blood run hot: corpses thick on the ground, the waves foaming pink streaked with red as they wash the pebbles clean, and flames and black smoke billowing up from what is left of Odin's ships. On the northern cliff, his siege engines are still firing, but it looks like Lucan has had the brilliant idea to recalibrate them and aim them across the channel, rather than into the water. Rocks and fire pots sail high, arcing down at least a mile away, where Odin's infantry must be marching in behind his knights.

"Form up!" he bellows. Lancelot and Elyan are still beside him, and he sees Percival guarding the standard bearer nearby. He begins cantering back toward the main scrum of battle, leaping over the dead, and heads toward the tree line. "Archers! Archers, form up!"

It looks like few, if any, of Odin's men gave chase into the forest; his surviving archers, if there are any, should be safe. Whether or not they're in hearing range, he doesn't know.

"Sire," calls Lancelot, "you're too exposed out here. We have to get you back to the main battle."

He's right, Arthur knows, but, "We need our archers, whatever's left of them," he says. "We can protect them, keep them behind us, and go after Odin's infantry."

"Odin's men will have no one to protect them," says Lancelot. "Only pikes, to keep us off of them, but they won't dare to close with us either. It'll be a stalemate."

"Not if we can get our archers back together."

"They won't be able to see to shoot, soon," Lancelot says, and that's when Arthur realizes: the eclipse has already begun. He'd thought that the darkening of his vision had something to do with fatigue, or the hyper-focus of battle, but now he sees that the contrast between sunlight and shadow has almost completely faded away. An eerie twilight is falling across land and sea.

Morgana will be on the cusp of turning fate in her favor, if everything they've been told is true. If Arthur wants to win this battle, it'll have to be now or never.

"Has Odin revealed himself?" he asks, but Elyan shakes his head.

"No, sire, we've seen no sign of his standard."

"He would have come," says Arthur. He knows beyond doubt that the other king would have wanted to see Arthur fall with his own eyes. Odin's vendetta against Arthur for the death of his son will never fade until Arthur himself is dead. "Let's go see if we can find him."

Together, he and his guard wade back into the battle; it's winding down now, a few separated skirmishes up and down the beach. There are unhorsed men staggering and struggling to keep their balance as they trip over bodies, swinging their swords wildly at each other in their fatigue and terror. A few horses are trying to escape the battle with no men on their backs, their barding too heavy to allow them into the undergrowth of the forest. There are bodies floating face down in the surf, surging back and forth onto the beach and then back out again, and the fires still burning seem ever brighter in the growing murk of the eclipse.

Arthur, Lancelot, Elyan, and Percival lend their strength at each skirmish they meet, toppling Odin's men and trampling over the wounded. Each knight they rescue adds to their forces, and they make their way back along the beach with less and less resistance as they go. Arthur's tactics have paid off, giving him minimal losses as his men waded through Odin's knights, trapped as they were between the forest and the sea. Those few who are left standing are throwing down their weapons and raising their arms into the air. The screams of battle give way to the moans and whimpers of the wounded and dying.

"Do we give them quarter, Your Highness?" someone asks, and Arthur nods.

"This quarrel is nearly ended," he says, loudly enough to carry. "Bind them and take them prisoner. The men of Camelot are not cruel; if any are wounded, see that they are tended to."

About a dozen men detach from his forces and set to work binding the prisoners; his remaining knights form up once more and head toward the southern cliff. The engines there are destroyed, but Arthur sees relatively few bodies; his men have hopefully surrendered and been taken prisoner, and he can win them back at the prisoner exchange to follow.

There is billowing smoke ahead, and flames, and Odin's standard, raised high behind his infantry. As Arthur watches, the men lower pikes into position to fend off Camelot's horses, but they also split to allow Odin's standard bearer to approach the front. Arthur halts his knights, and waits.

Odin rides toward them, his helmet off and his face pale.

"You have slaughtered my men," he says, when he is within range.

"You have invaded my father's kingdom," Arthur replies coldly. "And you made the mistake of trusting Morgana to protect you with her magic."

Odin's eyes go wide for a second before he schools his expression. Clearly, he had not expected Arthur to know that.

"We will hear the terms of your surrender," says Arthur, and Odin's face darkens with rage.

"You expect me to surrender to you, _boy?"_ he snarls, and Arthur's lips thin. "You murdered my son!"

"Your son challenged me to single combat, nearly five years ago, Your Majesty, for no reason other than his pride. When I defeated him, he refused to yield. When I turned my back, he tried to attack me again. He left me with no choice but to kill him. I regret that it was necessary, but I did not murder him in cold blood." His expression hardens. "Meanwhile, you have ignored the demands of honor, and sent assassins to kill me. You have invaded Camelot. You have overseen the slaughter of your own men in today's battle, and for what? Revenge? A vendetta against me?" Arthur shakes his head, so very weary now that the battle is done. "What a waste. A waste of your kingdom's resources, and especially a waste of lives. None of this will bring your son back. You have to know that."

"It will not bring him back, but I will at least have the satisfaction of seeing you fall," Odin rages. He rips his gauntlet from his hand and throws it to the ground before Arthur, with such force that it bounces, kicking up a little cloud of dust. "Single combat. Here. Now. To the death."

"And if you should fall, what then?" Arthur asks. "What of your men, standing here still alive? Who will lead them back home; who will run your kingdom?"

 _"I don't care!"_ Odin bellows, so loudly that his horse startles, and the men behind him jump.

"You don't care?" Arthur presses, leaning forward. "Don't care about your own kingdom, which you are sworn to lead and to protect? Don't care about the men whose _lives_ you sacrificed on the field today? Don't care about those still living, who are standing _right behind you_ , who swore oaths to you? Do those oaths mean nothing? Or is it only that you wish to join your son in death, and hope that I will be the one to grant it to you?"

There is a murmuring in the ranks of the infantry behind Odin, and he trembles in his saddle, face gone from red to white.

"I have already had my victory this day, Odin," says Arthur. "I have no need to kill any other man, including you. I have never had a quarrel with you or your kingdom, until this day. Surrender. Do what is best for Cornwall, and surrender, and live to lead your kingdom to prosperity."

The sky grows even darker, and it seems that the entire world is holding its breath as Arthur and the gathered soldiers and knights wait to hear Odin's decision. The breeze fails, and no bird calls. Arthur imagines that the horses have stopped champing at their bits, or swishing their tails; even his saddle no longer creaks. Only the sound of the distant sea continues, ancient and inexorable.

"She was supposed to change fate," Odin says finally. He sounds broken, and Arthur pities him a little. "She claimed she had that power."

"Morgana wanted to do something that only a dozen priests of the Old Religion could accomplish, working together," says Arthur with a sigh. "And I fear she has gone mad besides, to even attempt such a thing on her own. She was doomed to fail." And even if she succeeded, according to what Arthur was told, her victory would be short-lived. Arthur nudges his horse forward in the eerie dark and silence, and approaches Odin slowly, carefully. "Will you not surrender, my lord? Will you not yield?"

 _Will you make the same mistake your son did,_ Arthur thinks, _and pay with your life?_ He fervently hopes not.

There is another long pause while the king searches Arthur's face; what he is hoping to find there, Arthur cannot guess. Finally, though, Odin shuts his eyes, and slumps in his saddle. "I will," he whispers. He nods, then raises his head and his voice and says with kingly dignity, "I surrender."

Arthur releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and nods in acceptance. "Come with me to my command tent, if you will, and we can discuss the terms of surrender, and the prisoner exchange."

Odin draws his sword and lays it across his palms; Lancelot rides forward to collect it with a respectful bow of his head. "I would have expected you to kill all my knights," Odin admits, when it is done.

"They fought well," Arthur replies, "but the battle was ended. There is no honor in killing men who have yielded."

As they turn to head back toward Arthur's camp, the gray twilight begins to lift once more. Arthur glances toward the sky, and prays that his victory here is a sign that Merlin's fight is also over… and won.


	36. Chapter 36

Gwaine and Merlin edge up to the shrine's entrance, a little archway of stone with a battered wooden door, and nudge it open just far enough to peer inside. Through the narrow gap, they can see Morgana on her knees before the altar, chanting in a low voice and rocking back and forth. Around her, several candles are lit, each standing atop complicated-looking runes scratched into the dirt floor, and a brazier of smoldering herbs on the altar sends pungent smoke into the air. Immediately in front of her is a large bronze basin filled with water. As they watch, Morgana reaches up to pull her robe from her shoulders, baring herself to the waist, and Gwaine's eyebrow rises appreciatively. She may be an evil madwoman, but there's no denying she's beautiful, even with the strange designs painted on her skin. They remind Gwaine a bit of the druids who were painting themselves back at the camp, and he wonders if the swirls and dots on her skin have similar meaning to theirs.

Merlin places a hand on Gwaine's arm and moves him back a step, giving him better access to open the door a little further. Gwaine watches his shoulders rise as he takes a deep, silent breath; then he simply exhales, and every candle in the circle goes out.

Morgana jolts, then whirls in place, yanking her robe back up to cover herself. Her eyes are wide with either rage or madness, and they glow gold with the strength of the magic she's built up. She flings a hand out in a gesture Gwaine has seen before, and he braces for the impact. Usually feels like getting kicked by a horse, or else yanked backwards by a giant hand…

…only, Merlin waves his hand lazily, and Gwaine barely feels a nudge as the power passes over him. Morgana is the one to topple over instead, landing her elbow in the basin and tipping it to soak her robes and spill across the floor. She looks undignified as hell, and even though he knows she could kill him with a thought, knows they're in the middle of a battle for the fate of all Albion, Gwaine can't help the snicker that escapes.

If the goal was simply to break her concentration, well, it looks like Merlin's already been successful.

Morgana realizes it, too, as Gwaine feels the built up power dissipate, the hairs on his arms settling back down where they belong. "No," she says, quietly at first, then louder. "No!"

"It's over, Morgana," says Merlin. "The Triple Goddess will not hear you today."

"Yes she _will!_ " snarls Morgana, surging to her feet. "I am a priestess of the Old Religion, and none can stand against me."

"You're wrong."

Morgana raises her chin, eyes flashing. "And who is going to stop me from working my will? You? Your precious _Arthur,_ and his idiotic knights?"

Merlin takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. "Just me," he says.

Morgana laughs at first, but when Merlin only watches her steadily, unafraid, her expression shifts to one of hate. "You don't have the power to stop me. You are no sorcerer."

"As I said, Morgana," Merlin replies evenly, "you are wrong." His eyes flicker with gold, and a cloud of pure power swirls out and across the little room; where it passes, the stones are cleansed, and the runes erased from the dirt floor. A little breeze blows away the smoke from the incense, and the water soaks into the earth as if it was never there.

Morgana's eyes grow wide, and her breath comes in pants and gasps. "You?" she says. " _You_ have magic?" Then her shock passes, and she draws herself up. "You _knew_ I had magic, and you hid it from me. Coward! You _poisoned_ me, when I was your friend."

"And I have already told you why I did that!"

"You betrayed your own kind! Protecting _Arthur_. Do you think the Goddess will hear _you_ , instead?" she sneers. "You, who have turned your back on Her, on your own people?"

"I'm not here to petition the Goddess, Morgana," says Merlin. "I'm only here to stop you from throwing us all into chaos, magic and non-magic alike."

"You know _nothing!"_ says Morgana, her fists clenched. "I would have turned fate to my favor."

"For how long, Morgana?" Merlin's voice is raised for the first time, but Gwaine can't tell whether there is a note of pleading to it or not. "For how long, before the pendulum moved again, unstable, and you lost everything you'd gained?"

"I'd have it _long enough_ ," says Morgana. "Long enough to get what magic users deserve."

But Merlin is already shaking his head. "You said you'd turn fate to your favor. _Your_ favor, maybe, but not the favor of the magic users you claim to care about. Your aims are purely selfish, whether you admit it or not. You act from a place of hatred and envy, but you claim I am the one who has abandoned my own kind."

"If I were queen, no one with magic would have to live in fear!"

"No, but everyone else would," counters Merlin. "And that is no way to rule. You would be hated and feared… just as you are now."

"It is my _birthright_ ," she snarls. " _I_ am firstborn. _I_ am meant to be queen!"

"You would be a tyrant," says Merlin calmly. "Just like your father."

"I am _nothing like Uther!"_ Morgana screams and flings both hands out, and this time Merlin is not fast enough to block the surge of power.

 _Yep, just like getting kicked by a horse_ , Gwaine barely has time to think, before he smashes into the wall. He manages to turn at the last instant and protect his head, but it still knocks all the wind out of him, and he hits the dirt floor with a pained grunt.

"Gwaine," he hears Merlin call, sounding just as winded as Gwaine feels, but he manages to wave the other man off. Merlin really needs to have other priorities right now, like the witch trying to kill them both. Gwaine opens his eyes to see Merlin staggering to his feet, with Morgana smirking and stalking toward him, like a cat toying with its prey.

"You may have magic, but you don't have the strength to defeat me," she says. "Only Emrys could, and he's a legend. Doesn't even exist."

"Doesn't he?" coughs Merlin, and flings his own hand out. Morgana flies backward, an expression of shock on her face, but instead of impacting the wall, she smashes straight through it, dust and rubble falling down all around her as she hits the grass outside.

"Gwaine? Are you all right?"

"I'll live," he grunts in reply, just now getting his breath back. "Go stop her," he adds, rolling up onto his hands and knees before looking up.

"Right," says Merlin. His expression hardens into determination, and he steps toward the new opening he's just made in the wall of the shrine.

As soon as Gwaine can stand, he staggers out the door and around the side. He sees Merlin standing over Morgana's prone form, surrounded by shattered stone and bits of mortar. He hesitates, then kneels down to check if she's still alive. "I can't kill her," he says quietly. "I'm sorry, Gwaine, but I can't."

Gwaine sees her eyes fly open a second too late. In an instant, Merlin is gasping and clutching at his throat, and as Morgana stands, he rises into the air so that his feet barely brush the ground. "You should have killed me the _first_ time you had the chance," she spits. One hand is held in front of her, crooked into a claw, and as Gwaine watches, she clenches her fingers into a fist. Merlin's back arches and his feet kick out, but she is too far away for him to reach.

Gwaine pulls a knife and throws it at her.

Morgana's head jerks toward him, and the knife stops midair before it can reach her. She grins in wicked delight, and Gwaine thinks, _So this is the way I go,_ as the knife turns around and speeds toward him, inhumanly fast… but before it can embed itself in his eye, the knife veers to one side, and Gwaine dives in the opposite direction. As he rolls to his feet again, he sees the blade plunged into the dirt, all the way to the hilt.

"Your quarrel is with _me_ , Morgana," rasps Merlin. He drops lightly to the ground, and when Morgana makes to clutch her claws and her magic around his throat again, he merely presses his lips together and shakes his head, and nothing happens. "You leave him out of it."

"Or what?" she laughs. "You'll be cross with me?"

"Or I'll do to you what I did to the last sorceress who went after the people I care about," he says, voice grim. Overhead, in the dim twilight of the eclipse, thunder rolls, where the morning sky had been completely clear. Gwaine sees lightning flicker amid boiling storm clouds, as the sky grows even darker than the eclipse could make it. The first bolt strikes the trees nearby, a deafening crack as sparks fly, but Morgana only laughs.

"Whatever happened to you not being able to kill me?"

"I'll regret it, but I'll do it," says Merlin.

"Not if I kill you first," she spits, and then raises her arms high. She barks a word in the language of magic, and lightning arcs down from the clouds to strike at Merlin's feet, so close that Gwaine can feel the buzz of it in the soles of his feet. His hair is standing on end again, but this time he's not sure if it's because of the magic or the tremendous force of the storm overhead. He can smell it, on the air, and it burns his nose.

For the first time, Gwaine really understands just how outclassed he is, and how useless he will be in this battle.

Merlin looks up, and the clouds vanish as if they had never existed in the first place, though the sky grows no brighter; with no more lightning to play with, Morgana throws fire at Merlin. He _catches_ it, spins, and flings it back at Morgana, and on its way back to her, the flames turn to ice. The ball strikes her in the chest and throws her back, but it also spreads across Morgana's body and pins her to the ground, a layer of frost coating the grass. The witch screams in anger or pain, but when her fists hit the ground, it ripples, the shockwave throwing Merlin and Gwaine off their feet.

" _Weorold-theostru_ ," she snarls, and suddenly everything is pitch black. Dark as the inside of a cavern at night. Gwaine is completely blind.

"Merlin?!"

"I can't see," says his friend, voice trembling, as Morgana laughs.

"Well, I'd love to come and help, but neither can I," replies Gwaine.

He hears ice creak and snap as Morgana presumably climbs to her feet. "Oh, don't worry," she says. "I'll lift the darkness for you in just a moment. And the first thing you'll look upon will be Merlin's _corpse_." Gwaine _hears_ Morgana walk right past him, and he swipes out to try and knock her down, but she only kicks him in the stomach.

Her footsteps stop; she says something else, then, a string of words in the magic tongue, and Merlin screams, high and long and agonized. When it cuts off, all is silent except for their harsh breathing.

"Merlin," calls Gwaine. "Merlin!"

A strangled-sounding moan is his only answer.

"And you thought you could kill me," Morgana coos. "How will you do that without your magic?"

Without his magic… "Merlin!" Merlin was supposed to be made of magic, according to the druids. Without it, he might die. _"Merlin!"_

There is a dragging sound, and the noise of tumbling cobbles, and Gwaine knows in his bones that Morgana is taking Merlin inside the shrine to kill him.

"Actually, no," he hears her say, "I think I want you to watch."

The darkness lifts… to a degree. The eclipse is almost complete, now, and as Gwaine scrambles to his feet, he thinks he sees stars in the sky overhead.

He runs into the shrine, sword drawn, ready to _kill that hateful bitch_ to save his friend, but Morgana only waves a hand lazily as soon as Gwaine's inside, and pins him to the wall. He can't even move to struggle, like a fly in a spider's web, and she simply walks up, leisurely as could be, and plucks the sword from his hand. Behind her, he sees Merlin lying on the altar, shivering, with his arms wrapped around his middle. The candles have been relit, and in their light Merlin's eyes are wide and, as far as Gwaine can tell, still blind.

"I was going to shed my own blood to petition the Goddess," says Morgana, "but I think yours will be so much more satisfying to spill."

"You'll regret this, Morgana," says Merlin, still shivering. Gwaine wonders how he still has any fight left in him, with his magic gone, but that's how Merlin's always been. Defiant to the point of stupidity.

"Oh, I really don't think I will," she says cheerily, and drags the tip of the blade slowly down his side from shoulder to knee. Gwaine keeps his weapons sharp, so of course Merlin's clothing parts like water away from her cut, and of course Gwaine sees blood begin to well up underneath. He struggles harder against his invisible bonds, but it's useless.

Merlin hisses… and then his eyes begin to glow _blue_. This isn't the usual gold of sorcery, Gwaine knows, but it looks familiar anyway; after a moment, he recognizes it as the exact shade of the ley line that they followed on the Secret Paths to come here.

The ley lines… and the nodes. Morgana doesn't know how to pull from nodes, Merlin had said. He may not have his own magic right now, but it looks to Gwaine like Merlin can still pull energy from sources outside himself. Hopefully, he can use those sources without the foreign energy killing him.

 _That's it, come on, come on_ , thinks Gwaine, as Merlin's eyes grow brighter. He doesn't say a word, barely even breathes, not wanting to give Merlin's ploy away.

Gwaine feels a moment of vertigo, and realizes that the peak of the eclipse has arrived. The two magic users in front of him begin to glow, Merlin the bright blue of the ley lines and Morgana a poisonous-looking combination of green and orange, swirling together in a maelstrom that seems to reflect the unsteadiness of her mind. As Morgana raises the sword high to strike, Merlin's hand shoots out and grabs the wrist of her free hand, and there is a sudden flare of white that blinds Gwaine for a second. Morgana screams, arching up and back onto her toes, her head thrown back as she shudders with the raw power flooding through her.

Merlin is chanting now as he sits up slowly, his voice a guttural growl, his words in the language of magic rolling off his tongue as if it were his native language—no hesitation, no stuttering—and the hairs on Gwaine's arms are standing on end again as he drops from the wall back onto his feet. Morgana is no longer screaming, her breath coming in choked little gasps, mouth gaping open as she appears to struggle for air.

Merlin's words rise to a crescendo, and then he yanks his hand away from her wrist. The green-orange energy swirling around Morgana is sucked away into the cloud of blue, which concentrates to a globe of light held around Merlin's hand. He pulls it back and up, high over his head, and the witch drops like a puppet with its strings cut. Gradually, the blue fades, absorbing into Merlin's hand and down his arm; his eyes glow for a few seconds more, then that dissipates, too.

All is dark, and silent.

"Merlin?" Gwaine staggers toward his friend, picking his sword up from the floor in front of the altar. "You all right?"

"I'm…" Merlin sways on his feet, and touches a hand to his bloody side. "I'm cold."

His magic. Right. "Will it come back, do you think?" Gwaine asks.

"…I don't know."

Gwaine reaches out to steady his friend, but the weight of his hand on Merlin's shoulder causes the other man to stagger back… and he braces his blood-smeared hand on the altar to the Goddess.

There is a ringing, pure note, coming from everywhere at once, almost like standing inside a bell, and Gwaine feels himself lifted up and _out_ of his own body, for a moment that could last for a breath or an eternity. When he opens his eyes again, the darkness has turned to a pale gray, like fog on a bright morning, almost blinding but not quite. The space around them is featureless, stretching to the edges of the earth as if they are no longer inside the one-room shrine.

He feels a presence behind him, and turns quickly, expecting Morgana. She is there, slowly climbing to her feet, but standing roughly where the doorway of the shrine would be is another woman. Her features are impossible to make out, changing from one moment to the next. Gwaine thinks he recognizes his mother's face for an instant, and then his sister's, and then an old crone he's never seen before.

_::You have called to me. I have come.::_

Gwaine finds himself on his knees with no recollection of how he got there. He can't look away from Her, but hears shuffling behind him and knows that Merlin is kneeling, too.

Morgana is not. "Yes!" she cries, ecstatic. "Yes, I did!"

 _::Not you. Him.::_ The Goddess raises one hand, ever-changing, young and old in turns, and points past Morgana. _::Emrys.::_

Morgana gasps, and whirls to stare at Merlin. "What?"

_::It is his blood spilled upon my altar, given without malice. What would you have of Me, Emrys?::_

In the silence, Gwaine hears Merlin swallow nervously. "I… it wasn't my intent to summon You, My Lady. Ladies," he corrects himself. "I apologize if I've shown You disrespect. I only came here to stop Morgana."

 _::She wished to alter the course of destiny. Can you say that you have not wished for the same?::_ asks the Goddess.

"I can't, My Ladies," admits Merlin after a moment, his voice sounding pained. "I confess, I have thought that if destiny truly favored me, my path would be easier. I've thought that I can't possibly be the Emrys described in prophecy, because of all I've had to sacrifice in the name of that destiny. But I also can't, don't, presume to know a better way for that path to go. I don't have the wisdom to try and alter whatever is laid out for me… however much I might wish I did."

It seems to Gwaine that the Goddess smiles, then; he feels every bit of his mother's love, the joy of making a maid laugh, the approval of a crusty old woman, move through him, warming him in ways he hasn't allowed himself to feel in years. _::Well spoken, Emrys,::_ She says. _::You suffer, yet you bear it as best you can. You learn from your mistakes, rather than trying to undo them.::_

"I've tried to undo them before. It never works."

 _::Indeed.::_ She turns then to Morgana, and Her smile fades. Gwaine feels the warmth in his chest fade as well, a cold, implacable sense of doom falling over him. _::And then We have you, little priestess,::_ She says. _::Presumptuous. Demanding. Blaming others for your own misfortune.::_

"What? No! I—I was betrayed! Lied to! Everyone I cared about turned their backs on me!"

 _::You are not the first to have suffered so,::_ the Goddess points out. _::Your fall into darkness and hatred was by your own choice. You were not forced to feel envy and bitterness. You could have turned from that path, yet you did not. Just as Emrys could have turned from his path, and chose not to out of love for his king.::_

"I never thought I could walk away," he hears Merlin say, as if to himself. "Kilgharrah…"

 _::The dragon is not as wise as he likes to believe, and you have learned already that he has his own agenda for every word that passes his lips,::_ says the Goddess. _::You were naive to have trusted him; yet you were also young, and innocent, and your naivety was only to be expected. You have learned from that mistake as well, and grown a little in wisdom yourself.::_

"I only mean… well. If I didn't think I had a choice, My Ladies, maybe Morgana thought she didn't, either."

Gwaine still can't bring himself to take his eyes off the Goddess, but there's a part of him that boggles at the notion that Merlin would be trying to save Morgana, even now.

Even the Goddess seems surprised, if the expression on Her ever-changing face is anything to go by. _::You would protect the one who wishes you ill? Who would see you and all of Albion fall prey to her whims?::_

"I blame myself for what she's become," says Merlin, and though his voice trembles, there is a note of determination in it that Gwaine has heard before. "I'm the one who pushed her away from the people who loved her. I'm the one who… I'm the one who poisoned her. I know why I did what I did, and I never wished her ill, but I should have found another way."

Gwaine has no idea what Merlin might be talking about, but it sounds like there's a hell of a story wrapped up in that confession. If they make it out of this encounter alive, he'll be sure to ask Merlin for the tale sometime.

 _::And yet, as I have said, the priestess has made her own choices. You are not responsible for all that she has done.::_ She looks at Morgana now, whose eyes are wide. _::You, Morgana, swore oaths to serve Me, and yet you only swore because you desired power for yourself. You forsake My teachings in your quest for vengeance. You fail to protect those with magic—::_

"No," Morgana exclaims. "No, that's not true!"

 _::Do you then claim that I am a liar?::_ Morgana does not answer, and the Goddess shakes Her head as if disappointed. Gwaine, though Her gaze is not directed at him, still feels as if he wants to crawl on his knees and beg for forgiveness, putting his head in his mother's lap as he did when he was a child. He cannot imagine what Morgana must be feeling, as he hears her gasp and begin to sob. _::Enough. You have displeased Me for the last time, Morgana, for despite My warnings to you, you have chosen to ignore your visions and follow a path of hatred and darkness. I say to you now that this path has reached its end.::_

"Forgive me," Morgana sobs, and for the first time she sounds humble, like a scared girl, like the friend that Merlin claims she once was.

 _::I shall, someday,::_ says the Goddess. And then She is gone; the fog fades to darkness once more, the candlelight illuminates the space, and they are back inside the shrine… if, in fact, they'd ever left it. Outside, the full darkness of the eclipse has broken, and a thin, wan beam of sunlight shines in through the doorway; the hole that Merlin had blasted in the wall is gone, all the stones restored to their original place.

Gwaine picks himself up off his knees. There are tears on his cheeks that he doesn't remember crying. He swallows, and wipes his face, and doesn't turn around, waiting for his breathing to settle. When he feels he can speak again, he asks flippantly, hoarsely, "So, did that really just happen? Or do I need to lay off the drink?"

"It really did," says Merlin in a strange voice.

Gwaine turns, frowning, and then stops dead at the sight of the enormous standing stone in front of the altar, where Morgana had been. It's nine feet tall if it's an inch, wide and thick, irregularly shaped, and on the front of it there is carved a triple spiral, of the sort Gwaine has seen tattooed or painted on the druids. The stone looks somehow as if it has always been there, as if the shrine itself had been built around it.

Gwaine circles it cautiously, looking and listening for Morgana, but there is no sign of her. Merlin is standing on the other side, one hand on the rock, and his expression sad.

"Is that…" Gwaine isn't even sure he wants to ask, or how to ask, but Merlin seems to understand.

"It's her," he answers, hand still touching the rock. "It's Morgana. I can feel her inside. Faint. She's not dead, but she's… sleeping, I think. She's barely there."

"The… we really saw a goddess." A goddess turned a woman to stone, right in front of him.

"The Triple Goddess," says Merlin. "She looked like my mother. And Freya, and…" He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. I imagine She probably looked different to you."

"Aye," says Gwaine. He tries a smile, the expression sitting strangely on his face. "Things are never boring when you're around, my friend," he says, tossing his hair. He's never felt like such a fraud in all his life. "You defeated Morgana," he tries instead.

"I don't know if I did," says Merlin. "I didn't do _this_."

"What _did_ you do, there at the end?"

"I realized I could still feel the node, even though Morgana had blocked my magic. So I used its energy as if it were my own, and I took Morgana's magic away from her. And then when I touched the altar…"

"Right," says Gwaine, lifting Merlin's arm to check. "The Goddess mentioned blood. And I saw Morgana cut you."

Merlin twists and pulls open the gap in his shirt, running his fingers down his ribs. "Just a scratch," he says. "It's not deep, though I am going to want some new trousers when we get back to camp."

"Heh." Gwaine lets the relief wash through him. They faced Morgana, faced a goddess, and they're still standing. "D'you suppose we'll have to fight our way past those Saxons out there?"

"I hope not," says Merlin fervently. "After what Morgana did, and then the Goddess…"

"Wait," Gwaine cuts him off. "The Goddess did something to you?"

"She undid the spells that Morgana had cast on me," explains Merlin. "Or maybe, when I took Morgana's magic, maybe that undid it instead. But my magic still feels… wobbly."

"Wobbly." Gwaine raises an eyebrow.

Merlin shrugs, looking a little exasperated. "I'm still cold, but I can feel that my magic is back, but it also feels like if I were to try and light a candle I might blow up the entire room. I think I need some time for things to… settle back down."

"All right." Gwaine looks around, and runs a hand through his hair, and glances toward the doorway. "Shall we see if they're still asleep, then?"

"I really hope they are."

Gwaine opens the door, poking his head out cautiously, but there are no Saxons to be seen, sleeping or otherwise.

 _::It is good that Strength protects Magic, and supports Courage,::_ he hears the Goddess say into his mind. He jumps, and whirls around, but She is nowhere to be seen. _::It is good that you have found a path to follow at long last. Continue on that path, Sir Gwaine, and blessings will come to you.::_

"Did you hear that?" he asks, already half-expecting the answer.

"Hear what?" asks Merlin.

"…Nothing," he replies after a moment. "Looks like the coast is clear." He claps his hand onto Merlin's shoulder again, and this time his smile feels a bit more genuine. "Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. I want you to know that I debated LONG AND HARD over whether or not to split this chapter in two, and have the first one end on a cliffhanger. It was not at all an easy decision to make! But I know that some of you hate cliffhangers, and I also know that I will still get comments even though I may not get the same number as I would have if I'd split the chapter, and I _also_ know that I've built up the tension long enough that y'all might flip if I didn't resolve it soon. So, instead of two chapters of battle between Merlin and Morgana, I am giving you one chapter, about twice as long as you usually get. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Special thanks to my friends in the Merlin Chatzy group for ideas, and for putting up with my whining while I agonized over how to put this fight together. This was not an easy chapter to start, but once it was underway, well, the words really flowed, and now you have an extra long chapter to enjoy.
> 
> Comments are love!


	37. Chapter 37

The walk back to the druid camp is quiet; whether it's superstitions about the eclipse bringing bad luck, the commotion of the magical battle that just ended, or the will of the Triple Goddess, Gwaine sees no one out and about in the nearby Saxon village, nor anywhere near the standing stone as they go past.

No one near the _original_ standing stone, he corrects himself. It's a bit hard for Gwaine to wrap his mind around the idea that there are two of them now, and that one of them used to be Morgana. He glances over at Merlin, who looks tired and sad.

"Chin up, my friend," he says quietly. "You did it. You defeated her."

"I don't think I did," says Merlin. "The Triple Goddess is the one who finally stopped her."

"But you could have."

"I could have killed her. Or taken her magic, which…" He shudders rather than complete the sentence. "But I think, at the end, the Goddess was able to get through to her. To really make her see. I wish I could have done that."

"Maybe with a little more time, you could have," Gwaine tries, but Merlin only shakes his head.

"Not me. There was too much bad blood between us for that. Maybe Arthur could have, if he'd been here. If he'd known what to say. He knows what to say, sometimes."

"And you don't?"

They walk in silence for a few more steps, and Gwaine thinks Merlin isn't going to answer, but then he says, "I know how to lie."

Gwaine doesn't really know what to say to that; it sounds far too much like the despair that Merlin was falling into, only a few weeks ago. Instead, he reaches out and squeezes Merlin's shoulder, and accepts the tired smile he gets in return. Merlin stumbles over nothing, and Gwaine looks at him in concern. "You all right?"

"Just tired," says Merlin. "A little lightheaded, but that's probably because I need to eat."

"Here. Lean on me." He draws the other man close with an arm around his waist, pulling Merlin's arm across his own shoulders despite Merlin's protests.

"I can walk just fine."

"Yeah, but I was damn near useless in that battle back there. Let me do this for you now."

Merlin huffs something between a laugh and a sigh. "If you say so," he grumbles, but leans into Gwaine's hold after a few steps and sighs again. "It's finally over."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I hadn't really thought that far," Merlin admits. "I mean, I know Morgana isn't really a threat anymore, but it's hard to believe things are really _over_ , somehow. Even though I just said it. Maybe because I'm not really the one who ended it with her, I don't know. But then there's still this whole mess with Arthur, and Camelot, and destiny… I don't know what to do next."

"How about just when we get back to camp, then? One thing at a time."

"Well, if it's just one thing at a time… I guess we'll get back to camp, I'll eat, and rest, and see about trying to look in on Arthur."

"Good plan," says Gwaine. "I'm sure he's fine, though."

"I hope so."

"He's the finest warrior in Albion," says Gwaine, "and I don't make that judgment lightly."

"I know," Merlin counters, "but anyone can get a lucky shot in."

That's true enough, and Gwaine isn't quite sure how to answer that without giving empty reassurances. "You'll look in on him soon enough," he tries, "and this whole battle was supposed to be about shifting the path of destiny, right? You'll look in on him, and you'll see that everything is fine."

"I hope so," Merlin says again, and they finish the rest of their walk in silence.

* * *

 

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing at dry eyes and fighting off the headache brought on by exhaustion and stress. The battle may be over, but the work is far from done. The butcher's bill is still being tallied, reports of the dead and wounded still coming in; Odin's side took the brunt of it, of course, but Arthur still lost good men when he left the archers exposed to draw out Odin's knights. Even though the tactic paid off, he's not sure how long it will take before he'll be able to live with that decision. Men who trusted him are dead, because they expected that he would protect them and he didn't.

Odin is still there, wary but not hostile. They've been negotiating the terms of surrender for the past three hours, but Odin is smart enough to know that he's operating from a position where it's in his best interest to give Arthur everything he asks for. Arthur's debating whether to keep Odin as a royal prisoner and ransom him back to his kingdom, and for how much, or whether to simply demand access to Cornwall's supplies of iron ore and fish and create a trade treaty between the two kingdoms.

Such things have always been the responsibility of Arthur's father before now, but Arthur has sat in on enough negotiations to at least know how they work. Still, he wishes Uther were here, wishes the king were of sound mind and able to lead the armies himself, able to manage this negotiation so that Arthur wouldn't have to. Arthur's not ready to be king, not yet, for all that he knows the council is ready to have him take up the mantle as soon as he returns home.

He reaches tiredly for his goblet of water and takes a long drink. "You want all your knights returned to you. That can be done, provided they are disarmed, but in exchange I require all my siege crews, and any archers who survived your attack."

"They are archers, Your Highness. Peasants. Surely you can conscript more."

"I will not leave them for you to execute, Odin, and you know full well that monetarily, each of your knights is worth at least three of the other soldiers. Five of the spearmen. Be grateful I am not demanding gold in exchange for each man killed."

Odin starts to speak, looking annoyed, then closes his mouth tightly and takes a deep breath through his nose. "You would be within your rights to do so," he forces out, but Arthur is not hearing it.

"Camelot has no need of your gold, Odin, and no desire to impoverish you any more than you already have been by the loss of your army." Arthur doesn't want gold, he wants his men returned to him alive; he wants not to be left questioning whether his men were killed during the battle, or after. Odin may still want vengeance, but Arthur hopes he's moved past that for long enough to see sense. With any luck, he'll have learned the lesson that invading Camelot was a foolish venture, but Arthur will accept Odin merely learning not to rely on sorcerers to conceal his movements. "Your surviving men, including yourself, free to return to Cornwall, in exchange for all the prisoners you've taken, and trade in ore and fish. You know that's more than fair," he presses, which is only the truth. The councilors sitting around the table have advised him to drive a harder bargain, but Arthur only wants this to be over and done with so that he can return home.

Odin is not stupid, and likely knows it's a fair offer as well; indeed, the only reason he might not take the deal is because it makes Cornwall look weak in comparison. But then, if Odin hadn't wanted to look weak, he shouldn't have tried to invade Camelot in the first place.

The rival king has not yet answered when there is a bit of a commotion outside the command tent: raised voices and the sound of hoof beats, where there should be none. With a gesture, Arthur sends Lancelot to see what is going on. Outside, there are calls to fetch Gaius, and the pained sound of a horse in the final stages of exhaustion.

"No," Arthur hears. "No, I must speak with the—I must speak with His Highness."

Arthur rises slowly to his feet as Lancelot admits a grubby, white-lipped messenger, covered in the dust of the road, his legs spattered with dried mud, and swaying with exhaustion. Only Lancelot's grip on the man's arm keeps him upright when he stumbles. He's got his saddlebag clutched tightly under his arm.

"Sire," he says when he spots Arthur. "Sire, I come with a message from the citadel."

Arthur's stomach drops. "From Sir Leon?" he asks. They'd prepared for a possible secondary force to attack the citadel, Odin's infiltrators, another gambit to distract them or to strike while Morgana's influence was at its strongest during her ritual. Leon had been left in charge of the defense.

The man nods tiredly, then pulls himself upright and steps to the table where Odin and the rest of Arthur's war council still sit. He drops his saddlebag onto the table, over the lists of the dead and wounded, and pulls out a flat wooden box, ornately carved.

Arthur recognizes that box, and he feels sick with the knowledge of what he'll find inside it. He swallows, twice, three times, in a throat gone suddenly dry. "What was your message?" His voice barely scrapes past his throat.

In reply the messenger falls to his knees and bows his head. "It is in the box, sire," he whispers.

Arthur hesitates for what seems like an eternity, all in the tent watching him in tense silence, before he opens the box to reveal Uther's crown… and his signet ring, bearing the royal seal of Camelot. There are sounds of dismay throughout the tent, but Arthur barely hears them.

"The king is dead," says the messenger softly, as tears rise to blur Arthur's vision. "Long live the king."

Arthur's hand moves almost of its own volition, reaching out to brush the points and curves of the royal coronet. He doesn't even see it resting there, not really; instead his mind's eye conjures images of the man who last wore it. Stern, angry, occasionally smiling in approval, lecturing his son in how to be king, teaching him how to be a man.

His father. The king. His father.

Arthur's father is dead.

He glances up, and sees Odin sitting there, alive and well, just sitting there watching Arthur with an unreadable expression on his face. Arthur's sword is out and the blade resting against the other king's neck before anyone else can react; there are startled cries after the fact, but no one moves. Of course not, he realizes; none of them will gainsay their king, or oppose what he does here. And Arthur is king now.

Because his father is dead.

Odin does not even flinch; Arthur's breathing is ragged and his vision still blurred, but his hand is as steady as it has always been.

He swallows one more time, hard, the motion painful and burning. "Do you accept the terms of surrender?" he asks in a voice barely above a whisper.

To his credit, Odin still does not flinch; Arthur thinks he may even see a hint of regret in the other king's eyes, but he might only be imagining it to make himself feel better. "What of my soldiers in the capital?" Odin counters.

"Soldiers, or assassins?"

"They were men of my army," says Odin.

"They did not march with any army, and wore no livery," says Arthur. "Tell me why I should not hang them all."

Odin does not answer. Perhaps that is what he would have done, himself.

But there is something in Arthur, some tiny part of him that hesitates before beheading the man responsible for the death of his father. (His _father_.) Uther would no doubt have called it cowardice, but the voice in Arthur's mind sounds suspiciously like Merlin's. Or Gwen's. _Arthur, no,_ they whisper, and he listens.

What would they do? What would they ask of him, in this moment? What would they expect?

Not this, he realizes. Neither Gwen nor Merlin would demand vengeance of him, even if Uther would have.

Arthur has seen what the path of vengeance leads to: Odin's; Morgana's; Uther's own.

Morgana desired only to repay hatred for hatred. Uther had a lust for revenge borne of his own guilt and grief. Odin was the same, though his rage was directed at Arthur personally rather than into the all-encompassing madness that drove the Purge.

 _You are not your father_ , he hears Merlin say, and wonders whether the other man is reading his thoughts and watching over him even now.

Arthur can't know for sure; all he does know is that what he does here, in this moment, will set the tone for the entirety of his reign. And he knows that the path of never-ending vengeance is not one he wants to walk.

It is the hardest thing he's ever done in his life, but it feels _right_ when he slowly, slowly pulls his sword away from Odin's neck and re-sheathes it. Odin had not flinched when he thought himself about to die, but he does now, watching Arthur with wide eyes.

"Percival. Elyan."

"Sire."

"Ector. Lucan."

"Sire."

Arthur does not look at them, does not take his eyes off of Odin for even a second. "These knights will escort you back to your camp, and oversee the prisoner exchange," he says with iron control. "After your soldiers are returned to you, relieved of their armor and weapons, you will have until sunset to leave Camelot and cross the border back into Deorham. Do you understand."

"I do, Your Majesty," Odin says. The other king's eyes still watch him, but now there is a wary respect there that Arthur hadn't realized had been missing. He does not care.

"If any of your men still live at the citadel, they will be escorted to the border, without arms or armor. If they resist, they will be beheaded. If they return to Camelot, ever, they will be beheaded. Do you agree to these terms."

"I do, Your Majesty."

"Sign the treaty," Arthur says evenly, "then get out of my _sight_."

Odin picks up the quill, dips it into the ink, and makes his mark on the parchment. He stands to go, and Arthur thinks there is no irony in the way that Odin bows to him, as one king to another, as equals. Arthur says nothing, and does not return the bow.

Odin seems to understand.

Percival and Lucan lead the way, followed by Odin, then by Elyan and Ector, as they all troop back to Odin's camp.

Silence falls in the command tent, broken only by the sound of Arthur's heartbeat, pounding in his ears, and by the call of the carrion crows gathering outside. A breeze moves the walls of the tent gently, and he hears the banners flutter and snap above.

"Leave me."

One by one, the councilors and remaining knights rise, bow to him, and walk out. Some of them murmur condolences that he does not allow himself to hear. One of them, he does not see who, says, "Long live the king." When they are gone, the last to go is the messenger, who struggles to his feet in visible exhaustion. Arthur cannot bring himself to look at the man.

"Your Hi—Your Majesty," he says. "I am sorry."

Arthur swallows again, and nods.

"Is there… is there a return message, sire?"

Arthur shakes his head. After a moment, he says in a monotone, "Go to Gaius. You will return to Camelot with us, in the morning. Let the quartermaster know if you need a spare horse." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the young man bow deeply and take himself off.

Finally, Arthur is left alone, with only a signed treaty and his father's crown to keep him company. He stands, staring at it, for a long time. Eventually Arthur moves, reaching out to touch the crown once more. He does not put it on, but instead reaches for the signet ring, and places it slowly on his finger.

* * *

 

Arthur has no idea how much time has passed before he hears Merlin's voice, no longer in his head but coming from somewhere behind him. His tent is hot from the sun overhead, and silent. No one has come near since he sent his council away. But now Merlin is speaking through Arthur's mirror, calling Arthur's name.

"Arthur? Sire?" He can hear the note of concern in Merlin's voice; he's sitting on his cot, with his head in his hands, and if the mirror is angled correctly, Merlin can probably see him. "Sire, what's wrong?"

Arthur drops his hands and goes to lift his head, but is struck once again by the image of the signet on his finger. He can't find it in himself to look away; partly, he doesn't want to have this conversation without Merlin actually present, and partly it's as if meeting Merlin's eyes will make everything real.

"Arthur?"

"…Morgana?" he asks, finally. He barely recognizes the sound of his own voice.

"She isn't a threat anymore, sire," says Merlin. To his credit, he doesn't seem boastful about his victory, sensitive to Arthur's mood, or toward his feelings toward his sister, even though they are enemies now.

"You killed her?" If he had, it would be no more than she deserves, but all Arthur can think is that he will be without any family at all, now. He will be all alone.

"…It's complicated," says Merlin. That would annoy Arthur, if he had any energy to spare for his friend's usual evasions and vagaries of speech. "She… the Triple Goddess got involved. I didn't kill her, but… she's not a threat anymore."

It's good enough for now. Arthur nods in acceptance; he can get the rest of the story later.

"What about you?" Merlin asks. "Are you okay?"

Arthur almost laughs. He only stops himself because he can feel the tears hiding behind that reaction, and does not wish to disgrace himself, even in the privacy of his tent.

"Did… did you not win the battle?"

Arthur shuts his eyes. "We won."

But Merlin can surely see that that is no comfort, right now. "Arthur?"

His voice is raw, his throat aching, when he says simply, "Come home."


	38. Chapter 38

"And that's all he said?" Gwaine presses. "Just 'come home'?"

"Something's wrong, Gwaine," Merlin replies. He's already rolling up the blankets on his pallet, tying them into a bedroll. "I have to go. He needs me. Needs _us._ "

"You can't scry to see what might be going on?"

Merlin pauses, then shakes his head with a sigh. "My magic is still a little wobbly; I shouldn't really have tried to reach him just now, but it doesn't really matter. Arthur said to come home, and that's what I'm going to do."

Gwaine chews on that for a minute, leaning against the tent pole. "You sure you even need me?" he asks finally, getting to the heart of the problem.

Merlin looks up, frowning. "What do you mean? Of course I do."

"Do you?" Gwaine hates to admit it, but the truth is the truth. "I was useless in that battle, Merlin. You were right that I can't stay here with the druids, but will Camelot still need me? You don't."

"That's ridiculous," says Merlin, standing and crossing to where Gwaine is standing. "You kept me alive, when we first came here. Kept me _sane_ , kept me from falling into despair."

"It was Arthur who pulled you out of that," Gwaine points out. "I sure didn't."

"You brought him," counters Merlin. "You recognized that I needed him. You helped me get my strength back, you taught me knife-fighting… look, just because there was _one battle_ where I managed to fend for myself, it doesn't follow that you're somehow suddenly useless. You think I'll be able to just parade around in Camelot, using my magic?" Merlin scoffs, then wipes a hand down his face. "It'll be back to hiding everything I am, and trying to save Arthur from the shadows, and you know it."

"I'm not so sure," says Gwaine slowly.

"What do you mean?"

"Arthur knows better than to send for you if it's still unsafe for you to come home. He wouldn't ask you to risk yourself like that. Might be that you won't have to hide anymore." Gwaine shrugs. "And if that's the case, I'm still not sure you'll need me."

Merlin blinks at him. "Don't you see, I'll need you even more? The druids think I'm some sort of savior. Or even some, some kind of _god_ in human form. I need people around me to treat me like I'm just… me. You do that better than anyone, even Arthur. If it's safe… _if_ it's really safe, if he's somehow managed to lift the ban despite Uther, and I can use magic freely, you know it'll change the way people see me. I'll need you to remind them _and_ remind me that I'm still only human."

Gwaine's not so sure that's true, given some of the things the druids have told him, but he still smiles a little. "Could just get you drunk a couple of times and see how people react after that."

Merlin chuckles. "No. I've already told you what a bad idea that would be."

"All the more reason to do it. You know how I love a bad idea, Merlin."

Now he's shaking his head and grinning. "Well, following me around has been a terrible idea for you so far," he says. "Stuck with the druids, no wine, no women… But you followed me here anyway, and you stayed even when I didn't want you to. You may as well keep at it."

"At least there will be wine and women in Camelot," says Gwaine. "All right, you've convinced me."

Merlin snickers. "That's the spirit."

* * *

 

Earlier that afternoon, as Merlin rested and ate, the rest of the druids had begun to pack their camp and make ready to leave along the Secret Paths. They're nearly ready to go by the time Merlin and Gwaine finish their conversation.

"We came to support you," explains Hyledd, "and pray to the Triple Goddess on your behalf. We gave you our protection, as best we could, and we were here to help in case you should fall. But now your battle is won, and it is not wise for us to linger."

From what Gwaine can see, that lines up just fine with what Merlin wants. If he could fly directly to Arthur, right this second, Gwaine is pretty sure he'd do it, but it's too far even for a crow or an owl to make the trip, even if his magic weren't "wobbly" as he'd put it. In any case, Conor has agreed to guide them from the main druid camp the rest of the way to Camelot. "We'll have you there in a day or two," he says, patting Merlin on the shoulder as the other man gulps down a cup of water and some more dried fruit.

"Is there any way to get there sooner? Maybe by morning?"

Conor looks dubious, but says, "We could, aye, if you're able to walk that far."

"I've walked farther," says Merlin.

"It'd be overnight," Conor warns.

"The Secret Paths don't have bandits on them, do they?"

"Heh. No, they don't, laddie, but you've already been through a battle, had your magic tampered with, and met the Triple Goddess herself. It might be better to rest a bit longer. The Secret Paths can be dangerous; if you fall asleep there, you may never make it back to the regular world."

"I'll be all right," Merlin insists. "Please. Arthur needs us. We _have_ to go."

Conor is silent for a moment, pressing his lips together in something not quite a frown, before he nods. "I've taught you to know your own strengths, and to know when you've reached your limit."

"I haven't, not yet. I promise I'd tell you if I thought I were close."

Gwaine steps in, asking, "Didn't you say your magic was unstable right after the battle? Something about trying to light a candle and blowing up the room?"

"I've had enough rest that things feel settled again, Gwaine. Or at least, settled enough. I'm ready to get on the road."

"My friend, I don't doubt your willingness, but I do think you can be just as reckless as I am if you get the right idea into your head. Especially if the idea is that Arthur needs you."

Merlin sighs, clearly fed up with this conversation. "But he _does_ need me. Needs both of us, probably, and I _do_ know my limitations well enough to know that I can make this trip. If I can't handle the Secret Paths for the whole way, then Conor can bring us back to the regular world, and we'll make the rest of the trip that way. All right?"

Gwaine sighs, but he can't really argue.

There's not much more to say after that; all their things are packed, and the druids have already taken down the camouflage around their camp, and covered the tiny well back up so no one will find it. Gwaine sees several of them kneeling and passing their hands over the ground, erasing their tracks and even making the grass stand up where it had been crushed. It seems to take only minutes before they are all standing in a clearing that shows no sign that they were ever here.

"Are you ready?" asks Conor; Gwaine nods, and then they are on their way.

* * *

 

The hours pass, as they follow the ley line back to the main druid camp; Gwaine is a little bored, despite the eerie gray silence, but he can feel the tension radiating off of Merlin in waves. If there were a faster way to travel to get to Arthur, Gwaine is pretty sure Merlin would take it.

He wonders whether it's possible to fly as a crow along the Secret Paths, then promises himself never to mention the possibility to Merlin. It sounds like the sort of crazy stunt that he would be able to pull off, but that doesn't make it a good idea.

Gwaine reaches over and squeezes Merlin's shoulder during one of their pauses, and is rewarded with a look of worry that gives way to gratitude. Maybe Merlin does need him, after all.

* * *

 

It's not quite sunset when they reach the main camp; they are greeted with hugs and offers of fresh food, and a few tears of relief and joy that all the druids have returned home safely from Saxon lands. Then there are more hugs, once word gets around and it becomes clear that Merlin intends to leave them for Camelot. The children all gather around for Gwaine to toss them in the air one last time, and he exchanges friendly arm-clasps with many of the men.

"It has been an honor to host you, Emrys," says Derwen. Nesta and Arawn are by her side, and surrounding them are most of the other druids, from Merlin's sternest, most esoteric teachers, all the way down to the littlest child. In the middle of it all, Merlin looks distinctly uncomfortable. "Now that you are returning to your king, we feel that the golden age of prophecy is at hand."

"Arthur isn't king, not yet," says Merlin. "And I don't know if any of your prophecies are true. I'm only going to do my best to protect my friend."

"That is wise," says Derwen. "And yet, there is the feel of the Goddess about you now that was not there before. Conor and Hyledd tell me that you have related to them the tale of your battle with the witch Morgana. Surely, that story will pass into legend and song, and be told throughout Albion."

This does not seem to comfort Merlin in any way, and he presses his lips together, shoulders hunched up around his ears. "I didn't go up against Morgana for glory, you know that," he says evenly. "That 'witch' was my friend once, and I hope that someday she will be again." He bites his lip, and finally shakes his head with a little sigh. "Look. I know you want me to be some sort of savior to the druids, Derwen, but I thought I had made clear to you that I don't even know if I _am_ Emrys, whether I have all this magical power or not."

Derwen bows her head. "You are entitled to your opinion on the matter," she says. "It is, after all, your life, and your path that you must walk. But please allow us the luxury of our hopes, and know that they rest in you."

Merlin looks away, but nods after a moment.

Nesta steps forward then, and cups Merlin's face gently in her hands. "It is good to see you well," she says. "You were broken in body and spirit when you first came here, but you have regained your strength. In some ways, you are stronger now than you have ever been. I will miss you, but I am pleased to release you from my care."

"Thank you, Nesta. You saved my life, and I won't forget it."

The other woman kisses his cheek, motherly, in contrast to the way the druids had more or less taken their opportunity to snog him before he'd faced off against Morgana. "Go with the blessings of the old gods," she says, and others in the clearing murmur agreement and words of their own. There's the faintest frisson of magic tickling the hair on Gwaine's arms, and he wonders what sort of blessings and spells they are casting on him this time.

"Sir Gwaine, knight of Camelot," says Derwen. "You are the first such that we have ever welcomed into our encampments and the only outsider to have seen so much of our ways. You will be known forever as a companion and a welcome guest of the druids, wherever you may travel."

"Thank you, my lady," say Gwaine with a gallant bow, making the other woman shake her head fondly. "But truly: thank you. I know it couldn't have been easy to allow me to stay here, at first."

"Easier than you might think," she replies, "once we were able to see your character. You are a good man, despite what you may think of yourself."

Well. Now it's Gwaine's turn to feel uncomfortable. Perhaps that's just something they like to do to their guests when saying goodbye, to make it easier for them to leave. "I'll keep that in mind," he says, and accepts the kiss she bestows on his cheek.

* * *

 

Once all the goodbyes have been said, Merlin, Gwaine, and Conor take only enough time to pack more food and to prepare their mounts before they head out once more. Merlin's horse hasn't been ridden in months, and is a little resistant to the idea of putting on a saddle and carrying someone again, but Merlin whispers in his ear and feeds him apple slices, and he submits readily enough after that.

"Do you think you know the spell well enough to manage it on your own," asks Conor, "or do you want me to guide you?"

"I think I've got it," says Merlin, "but you'd better guide me, just in case. I've never done it before, and I still don't know the Paths as well as any of you."

"That will come with time, lad," the older man reassures him. "For now, you begin by touching the ley line, and asking for what you want."

Merlin nods, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. Gwaine watches him carefully, and after a few seconds he opens eyes that are glowing gold.

Then the world fades away, Conor takes the reins of both horses, and begins to lead them toward Camelot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno, folks; I'm a little concerned that this chapter will be boring or just come across as filler. I usually give myself a day or two after I post a chapter, to let ideas sink in for how I want the next one to go, in an effort to keep the story tight and not too rambly. I'm not sure if this chapter isn't just a waste of space... but the characters all had things they wanted to say (Gwaine's insecurity surprised me, for example) and I couldn't think of anything that I could really delete. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Comments are love!


	39. Chapter 39

Following the ley line in the dark is an eerie experience; not that taking the Secret Paths is any less so during the day, but Gwaine has found that a man can get used to anything if he's exposed to it long enough. The ley line glows blue beside them, and the world near it is translucent, gray and silent as it always is on the Secret Paths, but everything more than a few feet away is practically invisible in the dark. It is as if he, Conor, and Merlin are the only people to exist in all the world.

The one exception to the gray is the stars, which seem close enough to touch. They shine _through_ the leaves of the trees overhead, and are not just white but a myriad of colors, glowing like jewels in firelight. Gwaine almost wants to reach up and try to pluck one from the sky, and wonders if a sorcerer with enough power could do it.

They ride through the endless dark for hours, Conor leading their horses. The first time Gwaine had ridden the Secret Paths, it seemed that they'd traveled less than half this distance before Conor and Arawn had grown too weary to carry on, and they'd had to stop for the night; now, however, Merlin is lending his power to the spell that keeps them between the worlds, and it looks as if they'll be able to travel the entire way in one go.

Finally, though, they do come to a stop in a little clearing, and the ley line fades from sight. Gwaine looks up just in time to watch the stars lose their color and disappear behind the leaves, and listens to the rustle of nocturnal animals in the underbrush as sound returns. He suppresses a shiver; as convenient as the Secret Paths may be, they're still unnatural to his way of thinking. Gwaine prefers to be part of the world of the living while he's alive, not caught between like some sort of ghost. He can see why the Paths are only used in emergencies.

Conor removes the blindfolds from the horses, who blow and whuff and switch their tails contentedly. "We're about two hours out from the citadel," he says quietly. "Merlin should be able to find the path from here with no difficulty."

"Thank you for bringing us this far," says Merlin.

"Your power brought us, lad, and you probably could have gone farther," Conor laughs a little and shakes his head, "but my feet are tired. Here seems as good a place as any to leave the Paths and journey the rest of the way normally."

"Well, the horses won't let us travel in the dark, and I'm not looking forward to getting whipped in the face with a tree branch," says Gwaine, "so I vote we set up camp till morning."

"But Arthur—"

"Won't be expecting you to wake him in the middle of the night, and won't thank you for it," says Gwaine. "Whatever's wrong, it can keep till daylight, aye?"

It's hard to see, but Gwaine can just imagine the mutinous expression on Merlin's face.

"Gwaine's right," says Conor. "There's no sense rushing headlong into danger when you don't even know what the danger is yet."

"I know Arthur needs me," Merlin starts, but then he sighs and adds, "but you're both right. Whatever it is, he didn't seem to be in any immediate danger. He said he'd won their battle. I'll look in on him tomorrow at first light and see what I can find out."

* * *

 

The two sorcerers have been using magic all day, and Gwaine is still alert, so he keeps watch and decides to let both of them sleep until sunrise. It gives him plenty of time to think about what may have happened for Arthur to suddenly call Merlin home. Princess knows the laws; he wouldn't endanger Merlin if he could help it, and Gwaine is pretty sure he's not the sort of man to turn his back and betray a friend, magic or no magic.

That leaves Uther's death as the most obvious answer to the question. If he's dead, then Arthur is king, and Merlin won't be in danger of beheading or burning anymore. And Arthur would want his friends near, even if he would spout some drivel about weakness and his own image, and not needing to lean on anyone.

Gwaine still remembers how lost he'd felt when he'd learned his father wouldn't be coming home. There may have been no love lost between him and Uther, but it's still not a feeling he would wish on Arthur. The prince—well, king now, Gwaine supposes—will be grieving and lost. Winning the battle won't have made a bit of difference to that, Gwaine is sure of it.

Finally day breaks, and Gwaine stands up with a little groan and stretches tired muscles. He wakes the others, and hands Merlin an apple before the other man can ask for it. Conor and Merlin both smile at that, one knowingly and the other ruefully.

"What will you do now?" he asks Conor while they eat.

"I'll wait to see you safely off," replies the druid, "then make my own way back to the tribe. A few days' rest, and then I'll be headed back to Northumbria. They'll be wanting tidings after the eclipse, and all that's happened."

"Do you really think they felt it that far away?" asks Merlin.

"Oh, no doubt of it. An eclipse can rattle things halfway across the world. Hundreds of miles in every direction. And then with the Triple Goddess appearing, too… I daresay that battle you fought was noticed clear off on the continent and across the sea to Saxon lands."

Merlin winces. "So much for not calling too much attention to myself," he says.

"Ah, it's only natural. Eclipses happen more often than you think, even if they're rare in one particular location. It's good to stir up the silt and let the currents wash it away."

"If you say so."

"I do." Conor brushes his hands off on his trousers and stands. "Now. What will _you_ do, hm? Go charging off blindly into trouble, or take a look around you first?"

"I want to see where Arthur is, and maybe talk to him or Gaius. We traveled farther and faster than I thought we would; Arthur might not even be back from the battle yet."

"And it's not safe for you to go into the city without him by your side," Gwaine points out. "If people already know you're a sorcerer, you'll need his protection."

Merlin goes a little quiet. "I hadn't really thought of that," he admits.

"I guess it's lucky I did then, hm?"

At that, Merlin smiles a little. "Told you I needed you around," he says, and Gwaine nudges him with his knee.

* * *

 

It's no work at all to get everything together once they've finished eating, and in mere moments, the three of them are ready to part ways.

"Thank you for everything, Master Conor," says Merlin. "And please give my thanks to all the other teachers. I didn't mean to be rude, but I think I didn't really say much more than 'goodbye' yesterday."

Conor wraps the younger man in a hug and thumps him amiably on the back. "You can show us your thanks by using what we've taught you, and looking for more," he says as he lets go. "You're a quick study; you soak up whatever we have to teach you, and it's a joy to see. Make sure your Arthur lets you leave now and again to learn something new."

"I will."

Conor turns to Gwaine next, and winks. "Take care of him, and don't get killed," he says with a grin. "I'd offer you a flask of Water of Life to remember us by, but you drank the last of it yourself."

"And I only regret that there isn't more," says Gwaine.

They clasp arms, smiling, and Conor replies, "Derwen already said it, but you'd be welcome in any druid camp you come across. We'll spread the word. And if you ever make it up Northumbria way, we'll save a flask for you."

"I'll remember that."

Conor nods to them both, then turns and walks off into the forest. Whether it's his brown clothing or his magic, he seems to fade into the trees and disappear before he's gone a furlong.

Gwaine shakes his head. Druids.

* * *

 

Arthur rides at the head of the column, somewhere on the road back to Camelot. The entire army is stretched out behind him in a long string between here and Gedref; there's no need to push the men toward a battle, so the wounded and the supply wagons move at their own pace. There's still a detail back at Gedref preparing the dead for burning, but Arthur has no need to be part of that work.

He has a corpse of his own to see to, back in the citadel.

They're at least halfway back to the citadel, Arthur knows that much, but he couldn't say where exactly, and hardly cares. He finds himself torn between wanting to race ahead, and wanting to slow to a crawl so that the journey will never end. Once he reaches the citadel, once he sees his father's body, everything will become real. He will be forced to confront the death of the man who taught him everything he knows about how to be a man and how to be a king; forced to confront the fact that he is not at all ready to take up the mantle and rule.

And he'll be forced to do it alone.

Lancelot, Percival, and Elyan surround Arthur in an honor guard, respectfully maintaining their silence. The other knights are quiet as well, no doubt remembering those among their number who will not return from Gedref. He didn't lose many of them, but there were still some knights killed… and a full third of the archers will never see their families again.

And Arthur will never see his father again.

 _A king must rule alone,_ Uther always taught him. Arthur isn't sure he can survive alone, isn't sure he's strong enough to handle the burden that kingship demands. He'll have his council, but he can't rely on them; they each have their own agendas. He'll have his knights, but if Arthur can order a man to his death, how close of a friend can that man really be?

He'll have Gwen. He'll have Merlin.

…He hopes he'll have Merlin. He'd told the other man to come home yesterday, but will he? As a sorcerer, will Merlin really want to return to Camelot? Arthur _stabbed_ him. Camelot despises sorcerers. Why would he even want to come home? Did he ever even think of Camelot as home, before Arthur stabbed him and left him to die?

He returned to Camelot once before, a part of Arthur reasons. But that was only to discuss strategy before facing Morgana, another part counters.

Arthur's father is dead. He _needs_ Merlin. He's not sure what he'll do if the other man, his closest friend, chooses not to return.

He's interrupted from his brooding by the sound of hoof beats; he looks up from the road to see a man riding toward him, not armed but not one of Camelot's messengers either. As he gets closer, Arthur recognizes Gwaine.

Gwaine, but not Merlin.

Arthur's heart sinks, but he allows Gwaine to approach and rein in, swinging his mount around to fall in next to Arthur. The other knights make room for him, and he tosses his hair out of his eyes as the breeze picks up.

"What news, Sir Gwaine?" He has to force himself to ask.

Gwaine seems to read something on his face, because instead of a flippant answer, he only replies, "Morgana is defeated, sire. And we've seen no more evidence of Mercian involvement on the border."

Mercia. Ah, yes. Arthur had almost forgotten about their interference, buying off bandits and sending them to harass Camelot. It had at least made a good cover story for Gwaine's absence. He nods, and does not reply.

"And you?" Gwaine asks. "I'm sorry I wasn't here for this battle."

Arthur doesn't answer, for long enough that finally Lancelot speaks up. "We were victorious at Gedref," he says, "but received word from Leon that… there were casualties at the citadel."

"I thought as much," says Gwaine. "Arthur: I'm sorry." Arthur looks up sharply, not _at all_ wanting to discuss it, but Gwaine only says, "I was still only a boy, but I remember how it felt. I'm sorry."

Arthur nods and turns away, blinking back tears.

Lancelot, bless him, seems fully prepared to do the talking on Arthur's behalf. "What of Merlin?"

"Oh, he's around." Arthur can hear the smile in his knight's voice, and frowns. "We just weren't sure if it would be safe for him to show his face."

Arthur looks up, trying to school his expression to something calm. He's not sure how well he manages. "He came?"

"'Course he did, Princess; he'd do anything you asked, you have to know that."

Arthur looks ahead, but doesn't see a second horse farther up the road. "He's in Camelot?"

"Ah. Not exactly." Gwaine raises his fist into the air and waits. No; not his fist, Arthur realizes, his wrist. Gwaine is holding his wrist out, like a falconer.

A moment later, in a flurry of feathers, a handsome crow lands on Gwaine's outstretched arm. He tucks his wings under and shakes his head, fluffing up his feathers before settling them back down again. "Crr," he says, cocking his head at Arthur.

Lancelot reaches out to brush his fingers across the bird's back. "Is that…" He leans closer and lowers his voice. "Is that really Merlin?"

"Don't know what you're talking about, mate," says Gwaine with a wink. "This is clearly a crow."

"Raven," says the crow, and Arthur smiles despite himself.

He holds his arm out, looking Merlin in the eye, and his friend obediently hops over to land on his fist. "You probably like this better than riding horses, don't you?" he asks.

"Ha!"

"Your little bottom doesn't get sore." Merlin nips his thumb. He barely feels it through his glove, but still says, "Ow."

"Ha!"

"As I was saying, sire, you called us—called Merlin, anyway—and we came. We're only sorry we couldn't make it sooner."

Sooner? If they were fighting Morgana, then they have to have been in Saxon-occupied Kent only yesterday; they must have used sorcery to come so far so quickly, and may even have left immediately after speaking to Arthur. He nods, overcome, and swallows hard against the tears that threaten to rise. "I'm glad you're here." He brings Merlin up and gently touches his forehead to the crow's. "I'm glad you're here," he says again, in a whisper.

Merlin rides on Arthur's shoulder all the way back to Camelot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those in the US, happy Thanksgiving. To those in the rest of the world, happy Thursday. (Yes, I'm posting this on Wednesday evening local time, but I'm going to be a bit busy tomorrow, most likely.)


	40. Chapter 40

Having Merlin with him, even as a crow, helps. He doesn't reply much, but Arthur knows that he is listening, knows that he hears it when Arthur says things that the other knights cannot hear. He rides a little ahead of his honor guard now, letting their quiet conversation with Gwaine wash over him.

"My father is dead," he says softly, testing the words on his tongue. "Leon sent a messenger. He sent… he sent my father's crown and signet ring."

Merlin reaches up from his perch on Arthur's shoulder and tugs gently on a bit of Arthur's hair.

"…I am king," says Arthur. "Or I will be. Once the ceremony is held." He shuts his eyes briefly, trusting his horse to watch where he is going. "I'm not ready."

"You are," says Merlin. "You are."

Arthur swallows. "Father always said a man must rule alone. I don't—I don't think I can do this, Merlin. Not alone."

"Not."

"You think I will not be alone."

"Have me," says Merlin. "Gwen. Gai's."

"Do I?" Arthur asks. He has to know. "Do I have you?"

 _Don't be ridiculous, sire, of course you do,_ he hears, in his head, and jolts upright in his saddle. "Crr," says the crow. "You do."

"Merlin?" The bird cocks his head at him, just visible out of the corner of his eye. "I just _heard_ you," he whispers. "In my head."

The crow blinks. _Oops_ , Arthur hears. _I'm sorry. That wasn't intentional. It must be because we're so close together; I didn't think people without magic could use the Silent Speech._

"The… Silent Speech?"

_It's what the druids call it. They can speak mind to mind, without words. It's useful._

"You can hear my thoughts?" The idea is disconcerting, to say the least. Although there is a part of Arthur that thinks it might almost be nice to have Merlin just know what he's feeling, without his having to actually say it. Except then Merlin would know just how weak Arthur truly is, inside, where it doesn't usually show.

 _No! No, I'd have to actively be listening. And even then, I'm not sure I could do it without a spell, or your permission, or without you having magic._ Arthur almost thinks he hears Merlin sigh, in his head, which is very strange. _I learned a lot while I was there, but there is still so much I don't know. But no, I'm not listening in on your private thoughts. I wouldn't do that, Arthur._

Arthur believes him, but still wonders… _Do you think you could hear me if I wanted you to?_

Merlin fluffs his feathers up in surprise. _I heard that. Did you want me to?_

_I did._

Merlin bobs his head. _We can have a more private conversation this way, if you want._

Arthur nods. _My father is dead,_ he says again, this time with the grief flowing over him, almost overwhelming until he's able to force it back down. _I don't know if I am ready to rule, but I have no choice. I can't do it alone,_ he thinks, uncertain whether he wanted Merlin to hear that last part.

 _You won't be alone,_ assures Merlin. _You'll have the knights, and Gwen and Gaius, and me. You'll always have me._

_Will I?_

_I promise. Till the day I die._

* * *

 

 _Tell me what happened to Morgana_ , he thinks later. _I'll need to know before I go to council. And I'll want you there, to give your report to the rest of the advisers._

So Merlin does, hesitantly, and perhaps it's because he knows Merlin so well, or perhaps it's because of this "silent speech" that they're sharing, but he can feel Merlin's reluctance to hurt Arthur any further, with the news of Morgana's defeat. Carefully, Merlin relates the battle as best he remembers it, and Arthur gets flashes and images of the confrontation, glimpses of Morgana's face, lost to madness, rage, or ecstasy. When Merlin relates the arrival of the Triple Goddess in the shrine where they fought, a bright white light and a feeling of peace and sorrow overcome Arthur, and he is forced to take a deep, shaky breath to keep from weeping.

_Arthur?_

_I'm fine. I'm just_ _… seeing bits and pieces of your memories, as you describe them._

_I'm sorry. I must have gotten carried away_ _… or my magic did, which is the same thing, I suppose._

_It's all right. Go on._

There is a pause before Merlin continues. _She's not dead,_ he says eventually. _Morgana. She's not dead, but_ _…_ Arthur sees another glimpse, this time of a large standing stone in the center of the shrine, a stone that wasn't there before and which carries the faintest resonance of Morgana's essence within it.

 _The Goddess turned her to stone?_ He thinks of the tale Gaius told them, of the landmark for which Maidstone was named.

Merlin doesn't answer at first. _The last thing the Goddess said to her was that she would forgive Morgana someday,_ he says. _So I think there's a chance that we could get her back. But as strong as I am, I don't have anywhere near the power it would take to try and undo the magic of a god of the Old Religion, never mind the chief Goddess of them all. Morgana's stuck like that, until the Goddess changes Her mind and chooses to release her._

Arthur takes that in, letting the thought tumble about in his mind, letting it settle. _Does she suffer?_ he asks finally. He's not sure he wants to know the answer; it's not as if he can do anything about it, if she is in pain.

 _No, I don't think so,_ Merlin replies. _She felt like she was asleep, to me._

Arthur nods. _I'll want to visit her, someday._

 _Then I'll take you there,_ says Merlin. _When you're ready._

* * *

 

They arrive back at the castle finally, and Arthur brings Merlin down onto his fist with a command to get some clothes on and come attend him in his chambers. _I'll be hearing Leon's report and reintroducing you to the knights_ , he says. _And the council—tomorrow, most likely. Try not to look too shabby for that._

_I could borrow one of Gaius's robes?_

_Do that. I don't want you to look like a servant._

_I am your servant._

_You're going to be much more than that,_ Arthur asserts. _I haven't forgotten what I promised you in the druid camp._

That earns him a startled "Ha!" from Merlin, before Arthur tosses him into the air and he disappears toward the physician's tower.

"Gwaine," he calls, as they all ride under the portcullis and into the courtyard.

"Sire."

"Follow Merlin," he says quietly. "Make sure no one gives him any trouble on his way through the castle."

"You've got it," is the reply.

"Do you mind if I join them, sire?" asks Lancelot. "I'm sure Gwaine can hold his own, but he's been gone from the city for months, now. Anyone who wants to bother Merlin may not listen to him."

Arthur nods. "Good thinking."

Leon is waiting on the castle steps when they all dismount, his expression one of pure sorrow.

"I failed you, sire," are the first words out of his mouth, when Arthur approaches him. "I will accept any punishment you deem fit."

"Let me hear your report first, before I decide whether such a thing is even warranted," Arthur replies. "In my chambers, as soon as I've had time to freshen up."

"Of course."

* * *

 

It had been Odin's infiltrators, of course. According to Leon, the alarm bell had alerted them to an attack at the city gates, but even then it had already been too late. Leon clearly blames himself for being too slow to realize that the attack was a distraction, and that the real threat was already inside the castle.

"That seems to have been Odin and Morgana's strategy all along," says Arthur. "Everything they attempted was misdirection, a distraction from something else. Sooner or later, one of their attacks was bound to get through." That does not make it any easier to recognize that his father is dead because of it. "Were you able to capture any of the infiltrators?"

"No, sire," says Leon. They are all either dead, or fled." He looks at his hands. "But there is something else."

Arthur waits, not wanting to ask for something he will surely not want to hear.

"They surprised us in the corridors, sire, outside the royal wing. I fought outside the king's—your father's—chambers, and made it inside moments before the assassins struck, but… your father was not helpless. He stood and fought them. I think… it may be small comfort to you, sire, but he was of sound mind when he died. He died fighting."

Arthur shuts his eyes. It shouldn't be a comfort to know that, but it is.

"He killed one of the assassins, but there were three of them, to make sure the job was done," Leon says bitterly. "I killed a second, and the third escaped. I couldn't follow him; I was too busy trying to help the—your father."

Arthur swallows hard before he is able to speak. "Did he say anything?" he asks finally. "Before he…?"

"He did, sire." Leon glances uncomfortably around the table, at the gathered knights and Merlin.

"What you have to say will go no further than this room," Arthur promises. Lancelot and the others nod emphatically.

Leon looks at his hands again and clears his throat. "He said, sire, that you were worth it. He bade me tell you that, with his last breath. You were worth it. Worth what, precisely, he did not specify, but I assumed you would be more likely to know what he meant."

Arthur nods, unable to speak. The others wait, until finally he clears his throat, blinking hard against the tears that threaten to rise.

"Thank you, Sir Leon," he says hoarsely. "You have done nothing to merit punishment. But I would know where my father lies now."

"He is in state in the throne room, sire," says Leon. "We've closed the chamber, until you could see him. No one has gone in or out since."

Arthur nods. "I will keep vigil tonight," he says. "Tomorrow we shall bury him in the royal tombs beneath the castle."

* * *

 

Arthur allows himself to weep once he is behind the closed doors of the throne room. There is no one to see, no one to hear, except perhaps his father's ghost, and Arthur imagines that Uther is beyond caring whether Arthur allows himself this one moment of weakness.

His father is dead.

* * *

 

At sunrise, he forces himself up off aching knees and makes his way toward the doors, unsteadily at first but then with growing strength. He has said his goodbyes, made his apologies and his promises. Today is a new day.

The sound of the bolt sliding free is loud in the stillness, and Arthur opens the door to find Merlin, sitting on the floor, stirring into wakefulness himself.

"Were you here all night?" Arthur asks.

Merlin is quiet when he answers, "I didn't want you to feel as if you were alone."

The gesture means more to Arthur than he can say, without bursting into tears again; so instead of saying thank you he nods to Merlin once, then shuts his eyes and pulls the other man close. Just for a moment. Just for now.

"Do you think you could eat something?" Merlin asks, when they pull apart.

Arthur has no appetite at all, but he knows the importance of keeping his strength up. He will need it in the days to come. "Have something brought to my chambers, for both of us," he says.

* * *

 

"You really mean to make me one of your advisers?" asks Merlin later. "You don't have to. I mean… you shouldn't feel obligated or anything, if your council is giving you trouble."

"The council needs to learn that I'm not the prince anymore, and I don't have to wait for Father's approval to get what I want," says Arthur. "And I want this. You deserve it."

"Arthur, just because—"

"Don't argue," says Arthur, looking away. "Please."

That shuts Merlin up as few things could. "All right," he says finally. "You said you wanted me at the council meeting today?"

"You'll sit at my right hand," says Arthur, and Merlin's eyes grow wide.

"They'll think I've enchanted you or something."

"Lord Vortigern already brought up the possibility, a few days ago," Arthur replies, "and I reminded him that it was unlikely that you'd have left Camelot for months if I were under your influence." He smiles, a little. "And of course Gwen pointed out that you wouldn't still be washing my socks."

Merlin chuckles. "Still," he says, "maybe I shouldn't sit at the table right at first. Maybe let me give my report first? Get the other councilors used to the idea?"

Arthur finds he likes the idea. "They'll be skittish," he sighs. "I've already warned them I plan to overturn the ban on magic—"

"—you what?!"

Maybe it's the lack of sleep, but Arthur finds himself deeply annoyed by the other man's surprise. "What did you expect, Merlin, that I would use your skills to _win a war_ , to save lives across Camelot, and then force you to go back to being only my servant? To keep magic punishable by death, except for whenever I want you to use it? I'm not the hypocrite my father was, and I would have thought you would know that."

"I do. Arthur, I do, I just… thought you would wait."

"Well, I'm not going to. The councilors need to get used to that idea, and so do you."

* * *

 

Gwaine got to watch the reunion between Merlin and Gaius yesterday, and it was everything he could have hoped for. It's clear that Merlin was missed, magic or no magic. And now he gets to accompany Merlin from his quarters to the council chamber, as a bodyguard of sorts since it seems everyone has found out about the magic. Merlin is dressed in one of Gaius's nicer robes for the occasion; Gwaine thinks his friend may have worked a little magic on it to make it fit him better; plus he's not sure he remembers the fabric ever having glittering silver thread worked into the hems and decoration, but that's all right. He'll need to look his best today, to make the right impression on the other advisers.

"Do I look okay?" Merlin asks, smoothing his hands down the front of the robe nervously.

"Like a powerful sorcerer," says Gwaine.

"I'd rather look like someone they don't want to behead on sight," comes the reply.

"They'll have to get through me first," Gwaine says, and it's a promise.

The corridors are fairly quiet, what with a dead king having only just been buried that morning and all, but servants still need to do their work, and many of them watch Merlin with wide eyes as he passes. Gwaine doesn't think they look afraid, or hateful, but he's still careful to keep an eye out as they make their way to the council chambers.

The lords are a lot less quiet about their distaste. "What is _he_ doing here?" one of them sneers, not even looking at Merlin.

"Same thing you are, I reckon," says Gwaine, stepping forward. He knows he cuts an imposing figure in his armor and cape; that's why he's wearing it. "Only I imagine the king wants him here more than he wants you."

"I doubt it. Filthy _sorcerer_."

"That sorcerer just saved Camelot a few days ago, or hadn't you heard?" Gwaine steps closer and lowers his voice. "And even if he hadn't, if you insult my friend again I think you'll find cause to regret it."

The noble—all alike, every last damn one of them, even in Camelot—is saved from a response when Arthur arrives, flanked by Leon and Lancelot. He looks like he hasn't slept, but then Gwaine had heard something about a vigil being held over Uther's body. Even so, his expression is warm as he nods to Merlin and Gwaine, and decidedly less so as he looks over at the councilor standing near them.

"Lord Vortigern," he says.

"Sire, I must protest this—"

"Council hasn't even started yet, and already you are protesting," replies Arthur with a sigh. "Save it for the meeting, Vortigern, but don't expect much sympathy from me. You've already heard my plans."

"Sire—!"

Arthur sweeps past him without a backward glance. "Come on then, Sir Gwaine, Merlin," he says calmly, and the two of them fall into step behind Leon and Lancelot.

The council meeting is a refreshing change of pace for Gwaine; he's used to such things being an irritating combination of boredom and tension, but in this meeting, well. Arthur is not so much a breath of fresh air as he is a spring gale, sweeping aside everything in his path to get what he wants, and what he wants is Merlin on the council.

The first indication that things will be different is when Arthur gestures to Merlin to give his report of what happened in Kent.

"Can we really trust the word of a sorcerer, sire?" asks a man sitting next to Vortigern.

"We can trust this one. Go on, Merlin," says Arthur calmly.

"Sire…"

"It's rude to interrupt, Lord Clement. Merlin?" The older man's mouth snaps shut and he turns red at the clear dismissal in Arthur's voice.

Merlin steps forward and tells them all what happened to Morgana, and when Arthur prompts him, gives details of the battle, the ritual that Morgana had intended to perform and its possible outcome, and a description of the Triple Goddess and Her intervention.

Then Arthur makes him describe the various times he looked in on Arthur to make sure he was safe, and how he found Odin's army and notified his prince.

And _then_ Arthur asks for details of all the other times Merlin has saved Arthur's life, saved Camelot, going back to the beginning of his time as Arthur's servant. He'd been appointed the prince's manservant for saving Arthur's life almost the day they'd met; Gwaine hadn't known that, but it doesn't surprise him, given what he knows of Merlin.

That recital takes much longer than anyone in the council was expecting, judging from the looks on their faces. When Merlin is finished, Arthur waves a servant forward to give him a drink of water, and the councilors just gape. It's kind of glorious, really, to Gwaine's mind.

"Are there any questions?" Arthur asks mildly, knowing full well from the expression on his face that the noblemen are all too shocked to have anything to say. "Very well. Merlin, thank you for your service; I expect no less from you in future."

"Of course not, sire," says Merlin with a little smile.

Arthur nods as if that is only his due. "You may take your seat at this council," he says, indicating the chair at his right hand as the other nobles stare, "and advise me in all things from this day forward."

One or two of the older knights look uneasy, but it is Sir Ector, of all people, who shuts them up. Gwaine remembers with perfect clarity that Ector was the one who wanted to leave Merlin to die, and now sees him reminding the others that, "Any man with a sword is dangerous. It only matters whom he serves and how he wields his blade. And," he says, looking a bit hesitant as he says it, "it is clear to me that this sorcerer serves our king, and always has."

"And always will," Arthur agrees, and Merlin nods emphatically.

* * *

 

It takes a little while for the shock to wear off, for all involved—not just the nobles and servants, but Merlin and his friends as well—but Merlin has always been adaptable, and everyone who cares for him watches with pride as he learns the ins and outs of his new role and grows into it. He may fuss over the size of his new chambers, or complain about the finery he's being "forced" to wear, but he guides Arthur through his mourning period with grace, compassion, and wisdom, and no one smiles broader when Arthur is finally crowned king.

Together, the two of them accomplish incredible things for Camelot, and later for Albion itself… but there is nothing stronger in all the land, that Gwaine has seen anyway, than the obvious bond between the two of them.

What Arthur nearly destroyed, that fateful day when he stabbed Merlin, he now cherishes, and makes sure Merlin knows it. They still face hardship, still are challenged by enemies both in and out of Camelot, but they remain inseparable through every trial.

* * *

 

"This is the place?" Arthur asks, years later. Kent is still occupied by Saxons, but instead of conquerors, they are traders and peaceful residents who mingle freely with the native people of Albion. Maidstone is a thriving town, and its shrine a major site of worship for those who still follow the Old Religion.

"It is, sire," says Merlin. He waits, knowing what Arthur needs as he always does.

Together, they step inside the shrine, and Arthur walks up to the standing stone, there in front of the altar. There are the remains of candles, dried flowers, and other offerings in front of it, and the triple spiral carved into the rock has been filled in with red ocher. Arthur steps carefully, trying not to disturb anything, as he walks a full circuit around the stone. He does not see Morgana in any feature or facet of the stone. It's not a statue, or sculpture, or in any way reminiscent of a person. It's just an enormous rock. Anonymous, in a way that Morgana would have hated.

"Is she still in there?" he asks quietly.

Merlin steps forward from where he'd been waiting in the doorway, and lays his hand on the stone. His eyes fall shut for a moment, then he says respectfully, "She is, sire. She sleeps still."

Arthur nods. "Leave me," he says, just as quietly.

When Merlin has gone, Arthur rests one hand on the stone, then his forehead. "I miss you," he says. "I don't know if you can even hear me in there, but if you can… I miss you. And I hope that someday we will meet again."

* * *

 

As it turns out, centuries will pass, as Arthur dies and is later reborn, but eventually, he will get his wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my husband, who is not involved in fandom In Any Way, but who still was willing to hash military details with me and listen to me go on about this story for the past few months.
> 
> And of course, many, many thanks to all of _you_ , who followed along while this was a WIP, left comments and kudos, and encouraged me or bounced ideas with me in the Merlin Chatzy group. I am very grateful to you all.
> 
> In case anyone was curious, I don't have any plans for any further upcoming Merlin fics. I had promised myself that after I finished this one, I would work on my original novel, which I've been neglecting this entire time in order to write fic and receive external validation from you all. :) Original novels are a lot harder, for me anyway, because I don't have the constant cheerleading and feedback that fic provides. But I really do want to see this to completion, if at all possible.
> 
> Thanks again, to you all!

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this, feel free to drop by [my Tumblr](http://peaceheather.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Rend and Rebuild Cover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17582225) by [Linorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linorien/pseuds/Linorien)




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